Further Brief Briefings (The 2nd 100)
by JantoJones
Summary: A series of Man from U.N.C.L.E. ficlets which are longer than a drabble, but with fewer than 800 words.
1. Not Meant to Be

**(The prompt: What if Clara had decided to ditch her husband**  
 **and go back to New York with Napoleon? (The Terbuf Affair))**

Illya pulled up outside Napoleon's building and he bid his partner goodnight. They had been on a week-long assignment in Spain and both had been keen to get home to their own beds. Solo, however, didn't make a move to get out of the car. He just sat in silence, staring up at his apartment, where he could see there was light on.

"What is wrong, my friend?" Illya asked, with concern.

Throughout the previous week, Napoleon had seemed slightly distracted. It wasn't enough to interfere with the task at hand, and most people probably wouldn't have noticed, but Illya had. He had broached the issue a couple of times, but Solo had simply glossed over it and changed the subject.

"I'm not happy, Tovarisch," Napoleon finally admitted.

"Are you and Clara experiencing difficulties?"

It had been eight months since they had returned from Terbuf, when Napoleon had assumed he would never see Clara again. Parting from her for a second time had hurt him just as much as it had the first time, so when she turned up on his doorstep only a week later, he had been overjoyed. The fact she was married had initially been problem, but she'd assured him that she had already started divorce proceedings. Clara had moved in with Napoleon almost immediately.

"I love her, Illya," Napoleon told his partner, with sorrow in his voice. "I truly do."

"Then what is the problem?"

"It's all too domestic," Solo explained. "I know many people frowned on it, but dating a different woman every night was the perfect antidote for the stresses of the job. At first it was wonderful having someone to come to, but it lost its excitement fairly quickly. I don't want to hurt Clara because I love her, and she left her husband to follow me, but I don't think we should be together. She deserves to be with someone who appreciates her better than I can."

"I truly wish I could offer you advice, moy drug, but it is not me you should be saying this to."

Napoleon sighed loudly.

"You're right," he replied, "I just wish I could find the words."

He climbed out of the car and waved Illya off. Turning to the door, he squared his shoulders and headed inside.

The first thing Napoleon noticed when he entered his apartment were the two suitcases. Walking past them he found Clara sitting at the kitchen table, wearing her coat. She had a pad and pen in front of her.

"I was going to leave a note," she said, her voice filled with emotion. "But I decided that it would be too cowardly. You deserve and explanation."

"You're leaving me." Napoleon stated.

"Yes, and I'm sorry" Clara told him. "I love you so much, but it isn't enough. Every time you go out to work, or go away, the worry is too much to bear. I just can't live like that."

"I love you too, but my job is important to me. I'm still not ready to give it up."

"Oh Napoleon, I'm glad we tried, but we will never work. It's best to end it now before we begin to resent each other."

"Where will you go?" he asked.

"A friend has offered me a room until I decide what I want to do."

Napoleon pulled Clara into an embrace and kissed her deeply. It was only the need for oxygen which forced them to apart. Smiling sadly, Clara picked up her cases.

"I'll walk you down," Napoleon said, holding out his hand to take the luggage.

"Please don't. This is hard enough already."

Napoleon opened the door and stood aside. As Clara passed him, he thanked her. He had meant it as gratitude for her following him to New York, and for the time she had given him. In his heart though, he knew he was thanking her for saving him from having to end it. He felt like an absolute coward, but admitting his feelings to her wouldn't have helped the situation.

After closing the door, Napoleon took out his communicator. Illya wouldn't be home yet, so there was no point on telephoning.

"Could you come back here, Tovarisch?"

Illya didn't question the request. He simply turned the car around and headed back to his friend. It was going to be a long night.


	2. Certainty

Aloysius Montgomery Hetherington glanced at his antique silver pocket watch, and frowned at his captive.

"Your hour is almost up," he said to Napoleon Solo, as he showed him the watch. "Your partner has less than three minutes to return what is mine. The second your hour runs out, I put a bullet through your skull."

"That's a very nice watch," Napoleon commented, with infuriating calm. "Is it a family, heirloom?"

"Not that it matters, but I inherited from my grandfather."

Hetherington was confused by his prisoner's behaviour. He'd cuffed the man to a chair, and placed him under a death sentence, but he didn't seem particularly worried.

"He must have been a rich man," Solo continued.

"Do you realise you'll be dead in a few minutes," Hetherington yelled, his frustration getting the better of him. "I have no doubt that Kuryakin has left you behind. U.N.C.L.E. no doubt values the formula he took, over you."

"I'm certain they do," Napoleon replied. "Just as I am certain I will not be dying any time soon."

"Your hope is misplaced," Hetherington sneered, and checked the watch again. "One minute."

Napoleon smiled, looking, for all the world, like a contented man. Even when his captor raised his gun at the thirty second mark, Solo's demeanour didn't change.

"Ten," Hetherington began the final countdown. "Nine, eight, seven, six, five."

For the first time, Napoleon began to feel a little less certain.

"Four, three, two."

BOOOOOOOOOOM!

The wall behind Hetherington collapsed following the unexpected explosion. He span around and, with his mouth gaping open, stared at the dust filled space where the wall used to be. A few seconds later, Illya Kuryakin stepped through the cloud, with a maniacal grin on his face. He fired a sleep dart at Hetherington, before freeing Napoleon from his bonds.

"The formula?" asked Napoleon, rubbing the life back into his wrists.

"Handed off to Mark," Illya replied, stooping to pick up Hetherington and throw him over his shoulder. Luckily, the man was smaller than he was.

As the agents stepped out through the hole Illya had just created, Napoleon made a comment about his partner arriving almost too late.

"Now you know how I feel when waiting for you," was Illya's only response.

"And why come in through the wall, instead of the door?" Solo's playful criticism continued. "It was a little on the showy side."

"It would have taken me five minutes longer to reach you," the Russian replied. "Would you have preferred that?"

"Fair point, Tovarisch," Napoleon conceded. "I'll give you that one."


	3. Bird is the Word

As Napoleon approached the office he shared with his partner, he could hear someone, or something, screeching 'I have the secret' over and over. Entering the room, he found it dominated by a large birdcage, which was housing an African Grey Parrot.

"Where did this come from?"

Illya covered the cage and sat down with an exasperated sigh.

"It was sent by Marcus Wilson," he replied, rubbing his temples in an effort to hold off the headache which was developing.

"Marcus Wilson?" Solo queried. "His body was found two days ago. He was investigating an apparent weather controlling device in the Swiss Alps."

U.N.C.L.E. had received intelligence that Thrush was planning to hold several ski resorts to ransom by threatening to eradicate their snow. Wilson had been dispatched but contact had been lost shortly after he'd arrived in Switzerland. That had been a week ago.

"I found a coded message on the bottom of the cage," Illya told Solo, handing him the translation.

"The parrot belongs to the scientist who developed the device," Napoleon read out loud. "Only it and the scientist know the code to operate the device. The scientist is dead. A code phrase is needed to trigger the bird, but I was unable to find out what it was. All I know is that it has something to do with a children's rhyme. If the wrong code is entered into the device, it will self-destruct."

"I'm assuming the thing will stop screeching if we say the phrase,"

Illya had been trying various nursery rhymes for almost an hour but nothing was working. It didn't help that his knowledge of English language nursery rhymes was limited. He was reaching the point where the thought of killing the creature was becoming a viable option. It wasn't something he wanted to do, but it would solve his immediate problem, and the issue of the weather device. He asked Napoleon if he had any ideas thoughts.

"If it was me, I would choose a rhyme which was bird related," Solo stated. "Erm . . . there's Five Little Ducks, Goosey, Goosey Gander, or The Little Bird. Oh, I know! Sing a Song of Sixpence!"

Illya raised a questioning eyebrow, but didn't say anything. He merely waited for Napoleon to explain.

"This whole situation is about the acquisition of money," Solo continued.

He pulled the cover from the cage again, causing the bird to resume its noise. "So how about, 'the king was in his counting house, counting out his money."

"B396 K4573 P938 D" the bird said, before going silent.

"Well that was easy," Napoleon commented.

Illya glared at him, the headache he'd tried to stave off was coming to the fore and he could do without the smug version of his partner.

"What do we do with this bird now?" he asked.

"Just to be safe, we can't really let it leave the building," Napoleon said. "I guess we've gained a pet. What shall we call it?"

"Whatever you name it, keep it somewhere other than this office."

A home was quickly found with the typing pool, all of whom had fallen instantly in love with the bird. It was decided that his name was to be Marcus, in honour of the man who had lost his life getting it to New York.

A few days later Napoleon handed Illya a report from U.N.C.L.E. Europe, which caused the Russian to smile.

"I guess they got the code wrong," he said, as he looked at the remnants of a blown-up building.


	4. Betrayal

The two agents exited Mr Waverly's office; the blond with a look of absolute thunder on his face. Illya upped his pace in an effort to get ahead of his partner, only for Napoleon to grab his arm and bring him to a stop. He glared at the American with such venom that Solo immediately let go, and Illya continued to stride away. Several eyebrows were raised as he passed by. With and exasperated sigh, Napoleon set off after him.

"Look, I'm sorry," he stated, as he caught up.

Illya stopped and turned to Napoleon.

"Sorry!?" he spat, leaning close to the other man's face. "You betrayed me! You and Waverly. Sorry is nowhere near enough. I suggest you stay well away from me until I can get away from here permanently. I always knew U.N.C.L.E. would sell me out."

Napoleon watched as the man he'd called 'friend' walked away. This was their fifth public argument in the space of two weeks and the cause of the latest one was apparently the final straw. Glancing around, he seemed to notice the gathered crowd for the first time.

"Haven't you got work to do?" he yelled, before heading off to his office.

"Trouble in paradise," Section 2 agent Ronnie Ingram commented to his partner, after Solo had gone.

"So it seems," Marty Saunders, replied. "I'll catch up with you later, there's something I have to do."

A short while later Marty had located Kuryakin in the gym. The Russian was working out his frustrations on a punching bag. He was hitting it so hard, Marty was amazed he wasn't breaking his hands.

"Couldn't help but see what happened upstairs," he said, conversationally.

"It is no business of yours," Illya replied, without looking at the man.

"Then you shouldn't have been so public," Saunders replied. "Are you really quitting?"

"Yes, and to be brutally honest, I have half a mind to take everything I know to Thrush."

"Seriously?"

"After what was done to me, U.N.C.L.E. no longer deserves my loyalty."

Somehow, Illya managed to start punching the bag even harder. Saunders had never seen him so angry.

"What would you say if I told you I could give you a contact in Thrush?"

Illya grabbed the punching bag to stop it and turned to face Saunders.

"I would say you really need to be careful what you're saying" he replied. "I currently still work for U.N.C.L.E. and could very easily expose you as a traitor."

"I don't think you will," Marty told him, exuding an air of confidence.

"So who is this contact?"

"Me," Saunders replied. "I was sent under deep cover to infiltrate U.N.C.L.E. My assignment is to recruit disgruntled agents. So what do you say Kuryakin? Are you ready to change sides?"

"I have just one thing to say," Illya stated, with a slight smile. "Operation Uncover is green."

As soon as the code phrase was spoken, the doors to the gym burst open. Four Section 3 agents entered and secured Saunders.

"You knew?" he asked.

"Indeed we did," said Mr Waverly, as he entered the gym. He was followed by Napoleon. "We have known for some time that you were a recruiter for Thrush. We needed you to truly believe that Mr Kuryakin was prepared to betray us so that you would reveal yourself. Take him to a cell gentleman. Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin will be along to interrogate him in due course."

When Napoleon was left alone with Illya, he offered him a dazzling grin.

"I can't believe we pulled that off," he said. "Though I have to admit, you were quite terrifying."

"I play to my strengths," Illya replied, with a grin of his own.

"Shall we begin Saunders' interrogation now?" Solo asked. "Or should we have lunch first?"

"Do you really need to ask?"


	5. The Other World

Napoleon frowned as he looked across the table at Illya. The Russian looked tired and distracted. His naturally pale complexion only served to highlight the dark circles beneath his eyes. Napoleon was beginning to feel guilty for insisting on Illya joining him for dinner in one of New York's most exclusive establishments. His partner had been released from hospital only the day before and Solo was realising that he may not have been quite ready to socialise. It didn't help that he had chosen the same evening as a young starlet who had a gaggle of photographers, and a brown-nosing entourage, following her.

The whole reason for the dinner was to celebrate Illya's survival. As was too often the case, he had found himself at the mercy of a sadistic Thrush female, and had suffered for her hobby. Illya had been left broken, both physically and mentally, and it had taken weeks for him to recover enough to be allowed home.

"I can get them to bag everything and we can take to your apartment if you like," Napoleon suggested. "I shouldn't have insisted on bringing you here."

Illya seemed not to hear Napoleon at first but then slowly turned to him.

"Sorry, my friend," he replied. "I was just thinking. I am actually grateful to you for persuading me out tonight. I would have only spent another evening dwelling on what happened."

"You know I'm here if you need to talk things through."

Illya, as expected, declined the offer. Napoleon knew that he was attending mandatory psych sessions so didn't push him. His partner had always had a bad habit of internalising everything, but he also knew that the psychiatrist at HQ was one of the best.

"So, what were you thinking about just now?"

"That young woman's life is so easy for her," Illya replied, with a strangely wistful expression on his face. "We live in very different worlds, and whatever she wants is hers. All she has to do is ask."

"Are we about to have another anti-capitalist lecture?" Solo asked, preparing himself.

"No," the other man answered. "My opinions on that subject have softened somewhat. The point I'm trying to make is that she has no idea what is going on to allow her to live her easy life."

"I would be surprised if she has much awareness of anything outside her bubble," Napoleon commented. "But I think I understand what you're saying. You have just gone through a horrific experience in order to keep her safe, and she will never know about it."

"Precisely," Illya confirmed. "And that is exactly how it should be. Knowing that people can go about their lives, ignorant of the evil in it, makes my ordeal easy to bear. That young actress is all the reason I need to carry on."

Napoleon raised his glass to his partner.

"To keeping their world safe," he said.

"And keeping ours hidden from them," Illya replied.


	6. Not So Cuddly Teddy Bear

Having spent a great deal of time in the company of Napoleon Solo, few things surprised Illya. However, when the man entered their shared office with a pink teddy bear, it was enough to raise a curious eyebrow.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" Illya asked, frowning at the bear. "Has something resulted from one of your incessant dalliances?"

"No. And I resent the word incessant," his partner replied. "I have a date with Erica tonight".

"What is wrong with the usual flowers of chocolates?" the Russian asked. "Does she have a child?"

"She doesn't like candy and she's allergic to flowers. "Mind you, it cost me a lot more than I was expecting."

"How much do you need?"

Solo brought a hand to his chest as though Illya had just stabbed him through the heart.

"You wound me."

Illya said nothing.

"Fine," the American conceded, eventually. "Could you spot me enough for tonight, until I get a chance to go to the bank?"

"I don't understand teddy bears," Illya stated, handing over a wad of cash. "Why would a killer animal be a comfort?"

"I know you had a deprived childhood, but surely you had a toy which brought you comfort."

"Of course, but when you are six years old, and you witness a man being torn to shreds by a bear, the soft toy version loses its appeal."

Illya could remember that day as clearly as could remember yesterday. His father, against his mother's wishes, had insisted the boy was old enough to join him on a hunt in the depths of the forest.

The hunting party had comprised of Illya and his father, Nickolai, along with Nickolai's friend Oleg and his teenaged sons, Sergei and Vitaly. It was late on the second day, following a successful haul, that they returned to the campsite and found a bear rooting around. The creatures were common in the forests, and everyone grew up with a healthy respect for them, and the knowledge of what to do in this situation.

Illya, though, was still too young to fully appreciate the danger the bear posed. He had screamed with excitement and darted towards it. As he'd grown older, Illya had learned that bears would generally run away from a loud noise. Unfortunately, this bear had thought it was being attacked as several humans ran at it.

Oleg had placed himself in the way while Nickolai grabbed his son and ran away, along with Sergei and Vitaly. Over his father's shoulder, Illya had watched in terror as the bear had torn into Oleg.

"My God, Tovarisch," Napoleon gasped, when the other man finished his tale. "That's a terrible thing to see at such a young age".

Illya shrugged dismissively.

"It taught me that life is short," he replied. "It also meant that, when death came en masse a few years later, the sight of it didn't affect me like it could have done."

Napoleon couldn't think of anything to say in response. Illya's early life was often a closed book, and those times he did allow Napoleon in only served to remind the American just how idyllic his childhood had been.

"Could you cover for me for an hour or so?" he suddenly asked.

"Of course," Illya answered, with a slight smile. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to exchange this bear for a bunny."


	7. Hosiery Old and New

April dancer entered the office she shared with her partner, Mark Slate, and found him darning a sock.

"What on Earth have you got that sock stretched over?" she asked.

Removing it from inside the sock, Mark showed her wooden, mushroom-shaped object.

"It's a darning mushroom," he replied. "I got a hole in this one so I'm mending it."

April took the object from Mark and examined it.

"Socks are quite inexpensive, darling," she told him. "Why not just buy a new pair?"

Slate smiled. "My Gran would spin in her grave if I didn't try mending it first."

He thought back to his childhood in war torn London. Back there was a shortage of everything and everyone had embraced the Make-Do-And-Mend campaign put forward by the Ministry of Information. As his mother worked all day in the munitions factory, Mark spent most of his time with his gran. His mother had refused to allow him to be evacuated, saying that her husband was already away so she was damned if she would send her son away too.

Mrs Slate senior was a dressmaker, and very handing with a sewing needle. To keep her young charge busy she taught him how to do simple and basic tasks. Mark had protested, claiming that sewing was what girls did. His gran had then explained that his father, and all the other men who were away fighting, had been made to learn how to darn their socks and sew their uniforms when they were torn.

Mark had very quickly shown an aptitude for repairing socks and, before long, he started earning himself a little pocket money. His gran's customers and neighbours had been more than happy to give the boy a ha'penny* for everything he mended. He'd saved every single one of the copper coins, refusing to spend any of them.

"Why didn't you spend it?" April asked, completely rapt by Mark's story. "You would have been like a king to your friends."

"I was saving it to get something for my Mum," Slate explained. "Gran had contacts on the black market, which was perfectly normal for respectable people at that time, and I was able to buy my Mum a pair of nylons. Of course, when I really think about it now, even with all my ha'pennies, I couldn't possibly have had enough. Gran obviously made up the rest."

"Oh darling, how sweet of you. She must have been delighted."

"She cried," he replied. "I didn't understand at first and I thought I'd upset her somehow. I hadn't realised that people could cry with happiness."

"While I admire your loyalty to your grandmother, Mark, I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you bought new socks when the old ones wear out. You live in a more prosperous time now. You could even try a Napoleon trick and claim them on expenses."

Mark laughed at the thought. Napoleon probably would try to claim for them. Then again, he was certain that Solo's socks cost a lot more than his did.

"Tell you what, Luv. Next time I get chance, I'll buy a new pair," he told her, taking the mushroom back. "Until then, I'll fix these".


	8. Office Gossip

Like offices the world over, U.N.C.L.E.'s New York headquarters ran on gossip and conjecture. For a building full of people, for whom secrecy was the most pertinent part of their job descriptions, certain types of information flowed like water. The subject changed often, depending on what was going on that day, and today's topic was "Why does Illya Kuryakin wear so much **black**?"

There was a very definite **joint** consensus, by all the women at least, that he looked amazing in it. Though, as a few pointed out, with his slim, athletic frame, he looked good in anything. Napoleon was a bit of a clothes horse, and it was obvious he put a lot of thought into his attire. For Illya, on the other hand, it was effortless. Even when he was at his scruffiest, it just made him look better.

As to the black he chose to wear, many assumed it was simply down to his job. As secret agent, he needed to go unnoticed, but it was quickly pointed out that someone wearing all black, in a crowd of colour, would stand out. The second theory was that, growing up in the Soviet Union, choosing what to wear was the least of people's worries, as such, Illya had simply fallen into the habit of buying black.

The third, and most popular supposition, was that he was in mourning. He always wore a thin gold band, which seemed to suggest he was married. Given that he never mentioned a wife, it was assumed that she was dead

Naturally, as is the way with these things, the man himself got to hear of the different theories. There had been a time when being the subject of office gossip would have been an annoyance. After a few years in America, however, he had become used to it. Besides, he knew that the next subject for conversation would come along before too long.

Illya had to smile when he heard what was being suggested, especially as he knew they would never guess the real reason. Against what everyone thought about him, there was a streak of vanity within him. Illya knew he was attractive. He was very aware of the effect of his half-smile, and was able to deploy his 'looking through his eyelashes' trick at the drop of a hat. More importantly, he knew that black was a perfect contrast to his blond hair, and that it brought out the blue of his eyes.


	9. Divided by a Common Language

The infiltration had gone as smoothly as anyone could have hoped for but, upon reaching their goal, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin had hit a snag.

"It looks as though our lead gave us incorrect passwords," Napoleon said, with annoyance.

"They may have been changed in the interim," Illya replied.

They had broken into a large mansion, deep in the heart of Buckinghamshire, which belonged to a high ranking Thrush official called Frederica Eliza Armstrong. She was known to be the paymaster general for the British sector of Thrush, and the agents were in a search for the identities of those she paid.

Following the interrogations of one of Miss Armstrong's underlings, Napoleon and Illya had learned that all sensitive information was kept in a safe, in her office. This in itself wasn't a surprise, but the method of opening it was. According to the underling, the lock to the safe was connected to an antique typewriter on Miss Armstrong's desk. A certain sentence had to be typed and this would reveal the safe and open it. Napoleon had tried the sentence three times but nothing had happened.

"Are you sure you're using the correct words?" Illya asked.

Napoleon reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.

"Here, I wrote them down," he answered. "Orange and gray colored pajama fibers."

"We are in England," the Russian pointed out.

"I know that," Napoleon snapped back. "I remember getting on the flight to London."

"I mean, four of those words are spelled differently here."

"Of course," the other man replied. "They really should learn how to spell the language properly."

"I believe they had it first," Illya muttered.

In truth, he found spelling in English to be baffling at times; whether it was British English or American English. Although, he had to admit, a lot of American spellings made much more sense to him than their British versions. He'd also never worked out why cough, rough, and dough didn't rhyme.

Napoleon typed 'orange and grey coloured pyjama fibres' and was finally rewarded with his prize. Across the room, a large painting slid along the wall and the door to the hidden safe swung open. After a quick check the papers were indeed what they were looking for, Illya tucked them into his jacket, before closing the safe and repositioning the painting.

They were back in London, and the names were distributed, long before Miss Armstrong even knew that anything had happened.


	10. Sally

Illya couldn't remember how long he had been held in the cage. The steel bars formed a cube measuring 3ft along each edge, leaving Illya barely any room to stretch out. The whole thing was anchored to into ground, meaning there were no locks for the agent to pick. To add to his discomfort the room was lit by bright lights, which were never turned off. It was also very warm, and he hadn't been given any water.

The whole idea was to get him to give over the details of Alexander Waverly's itinerary, but they had, thus far, been unsuccessful. Illya Kuryakin was well known for his resilience, so his captors weren't too concerned yet. This was merely the first of a raft of techniques they were intending to try.

At the sound of the door opening, Illya wearily raised his head, hoping to see his partner. He was disappointed to see it was only his captor's lackey. Whenever he saw her, Illya always got the impression she wasn't there by choice.

"Hey," he called, as best he could with his dry throat. "If you help me, I will take you with me."

She glanced towards him but turned away just as quickly. However, Illya had seen what he needed to. It had been fleeting, but an expression of hope had showed itself.

"What's your name?" he asked, trying to ignore the pain each syllable caused.

"Sally," she replied, without looking at him.

"I'm Illya," he told her. "And I really can help you. I just need to be out of this cage."

Sally turned to look directly at him for the first time. She was instantly drawn into deep and sad blue pools, and knew he meant what he said.

"I daren't," she told him. "They might kill me."

"They _are_ killing me," he replied. "Please, help me."

Sally hesitated slightly, but the puppy-dog look on his face melted her heart. She couldn't bear the thought of more pain being reflected in those eyes. She turned the necessary dial and the cage was released from the floor. With Sally's help, Illya climbed to his feet.

"We need to get you some water," she said, as she allowed the freed man to prop himself up against her.

"There'll be time for that later," he gasped.

His muscles and joints screamed their protestations as he moved for the first time in a long time. It was hard going at first but, with Sally's help, Illya could feel movement returning. They had been going for ten minutes, when an ear-splitting siren began to wail.

"They must have realised you have escaped," Sally shouted above the siren. "Quickly! We're almost at the service tunnels."

Illya was energised by a sudden burst of adrenalin and the two of them ran towards the tunnel. They had almost reached the staircase when a shot rang out and Sally pitched forward. Illya realised, as her life's blood spread across her back, that she was unlikely to survive. Still, he picked her up and dragged her through the doorway to the staircase. Laying her down momentarily, he dropped the bar across the back of the doors and hoped it would hold his pursuers off for long enough.

Sally's breathing was very shallow when he returned to her, and he knew she would soon be gone.

"I'm sorry," he told her, with genuine remorse. "I promised to help you escape."

"You did help me," she replied, her voice barely a whisper. "Death is far more preferable to slavery."

"I will still take you out of here," he assured her, but she refused to go.

"You don't have . . . much strength, and . . . you are going to need it if . . . you are to get away. Carrying a . . . dead body will only . . . hinder you. Please . . . go."

Leaning forward, Illya kissed Sally softly, on the lips.

"Thank you," he whispered.

The slight smile which appeared on her face remained as her eyes fluttered closed and she finally found true freedom.

Illya had seen, and been party to, many deaths in his time, and there were several he regretted. With Sally, he felt sad that she had been sacrificed in the effort to save his own life, but there was something about her death which had seemed as though it had been what she wanted.

He made it home safely, and an operation was launched to raid the facility in which he had been held. Once everyone inside had been captured and the building secured, Illya ensured that Sally's body was retrieved. With Mr Waverly's permission, and blessing, she was given a proper funeral and was buried in a private cemetery owned by U.N.C.L.E.


	11. Shine a Light on the Problem

There was quite some distance between where Napoleon was hidden and his only route of escape. The gates to the compound had already been broken down during Illya's escape, so it left a wide open space for Solo to go though. The Russian had basically driven straight through them with a stolen jeep. Napoleon would be able to sprint across it in seconds, if the area wasn't surrounded by gunmen who were all waiting to take a shot at him. It didn't help that, even though it was night-time, the whole **area** was bathed in bright, **silver** moonlight.

Movement on the other side of the damaged gates caught Napoleon's attention. Using the sight-scope from his Special, he looked through to see Illya looking back at him through his own scope, and waving. Part of him was annoyed because he'd told Illya to get as far away as possible. Illya was carrying an injury to at least two ribs. The other part of Napoleon was pleased he'd stuck around. If anyone could find him a way out it was his partner.

Early in their partnership, the two agents had worked out a series of hand signals, for times when it was imperative to remain silent. Across the compound Napoleon could see Illya signalling for him to be ready. Solo had no idea what was about to happen but assumed, given Illya's penchant for tings blowing up, that it would involve explosives. Whatever it was he knew his only objective was to run.

It happened less than thirty seconds later and it wasn't what Napoleon had been expecting at all. From outside the compound's side walls, several bright search lights shone out. Not waiting to see if the armed guards had been distracted, Napoleon took his chance and bolted across the open space.

He made it two thirds of the way, when one of the gunmen realised what was happening and starting shooting at the fleeing figure. Napoleon felt the bullets whizzing past him but, by some miracle, none of them hit home. He reached the Jeep, which Illya already had running, and jumped into the back.

"Go!" he yelled.

Illya hit the gas and they sped away.

"I thought I told you to get to safety," Napoleon admonished, as he climbed to the front of the vehicle.

"I did," Illya replied. "If I hadn't, I wouldn't have been able to set up the lights."

"Fair point," Solo acknowledged. "Where did you get them from?

"They were in the Jeep. When I realised they were fitted with timers, I decided they would be useful to get you out. I couldn't leave you behind."

"Gee, you'll make me blush."

"Don't flatter yourself," Illya stated. "You have the microfilm."


	12. The King is Not Dead Yet

As he approached, Napoleon could see that Mrs Waverly was dabbing at her eyes with a sky blue handkerchief. His heart froze in his chest, assuming the worst had happened. He looked to the Section 3 agent, Ed O'Brian, who was standing nearby. He came over to Solo and explained that Mr Waverly was going to be fine. Mrs Waverly's tears were obviously a release of tension.

The Old Man had taken a tumble down the stairs at home and, although it had only been the bottom four, he had hurt himself quite badly, and knocked himself unconscious. Napoleon handed Mrs Waverly the cup of coffee he'd gone in search for. She accepted politely, but placed it on the table beside her.

"O'Brian tells me he is going to be okay," he said, sitting down beside her.

"He's broken his leg and his wrist," she explained. "It could so easily have been a lot worse. I could have lost him and it would have been such a terrible way for him to go. He has been surrounded by danger for almost his entire life. It would have really annoyed him if he had been bested by a staircase."

Napoleon smiled. In his mind's eye he could see the look of irritation on his boss's face.

"It would take a lot more than fall to defeat Alexander Waverly," he told her. "I wouldn't be surprised if he was back at work in two days. He's like my partner in that regard."

"I wish you were saying that in jest," Mrs Waverly replied, returning Solo's smile. "One day he might realise he's not as young as he once was."

"I doubt it," Napoleon said, with a laugh. "I know it's probably wrong for me to ask, but what was he like when he was younger?"

Mrs Waverly reached into her purse and pulled out an old picture of her husband, taken when he was younger. She handed it to Napoleon, explaining that she carried it everywhere.

"He was a lot like you," she told him. "Without all the women, of course. He was, and still is, brave, funny, and handsome. Although we've both aged, to me he will always be that man in photograph. I don't know what I would do without him."

Mrs Waverly reached for her handkerchief once again as the tears returned. She had heard her husband cry out as he had fallen, and had found him lying so still at the bottom of the stairs. She'd been certain there and then that he had been taken from her. She'd immediately called for one of the agents who were guarding the house and he'd been able to assure her that he was still breathing.

A doctor stepped into the waiting room and told Mrs Waverly that her husband was settled into a room and she could go and sit with him.

"He is still sleeping," the doctor explained. "But I believe he will be back with us soon."

"Well now," said Mrs Waverly, standing up and drying her eyes. "He will want to see a smiling face when he wakes up."

As she left the waiting room, accompanied by O'Brian, Napoleon breathed a heavy sigh of relief. He couldn't let Mrs Waverly see, but the thought of losing Mr Waverly had scared him badly. Everyone knew he was the heir apparent for the Old Man's job, but he wasn't ready. He needed more time to get used to that future.


	13. Accepting Fate

Lying on his back, Illya watched as several vultures **glided** around in the sky above him.

"I'm not dead yet," he croaked, his parched throat too painful to shout.

The birds were obviously attracted by the copious amounts of **red** blood which had spilled from the body of a different type of bird lying a few feet from him. He tried to ignore the trickle of his own blood which was soaking into the baked earth. Illya knew death was coming, and was strangely accepting of it. He'd faced it on many occasions, but the knowledge his partner would find hum had always kept hope alive. This time though, no help would be forthcoming, so there was no need for hope.

Illya had been sent to a Thrush facility, deep in the Mojave Desert, with no back-up close by and no radio contact. His mission was to infiltrate the facility, which had state of the art security and scanning equipment. This had meant he'd had to go in without communications and no way to call for help if he needed it. He would have to get back to his vehicle to retrieve his communicator. His assignment was then to gather any information he could find and shut down the facility by whatever means necessary. Being Illya, this naturally meant making it go boom.

The assignment had been a breeze. Illya had taken many photographs with his miniature camera and then rigged up several explosions, using equipment he'd found around the facility. Not wishing to take life where it wasn't necessary, he'd sounded the fire alarm a couple of minutes before triggering the bombs. He'd escaped by hiding himself amongst the evacuating personnel, before slipping away into the nearby caves, where he had hidden is motorcycle.

His luck had run out when he was recognised by a guard who pursued him on his own bike. The chase had gone on for twenty minutes, during which Illya had tried to make contact with HQ, before the guard caught up with Illya. Each man had tried to push the other from his vehicle which, not only resulted in Illya dropping his communicator, but also with both of them coming off. Illya had landed badly, breaking the bones in his lower right leg. The blood was coming from the very nasty wound where one of the bones had pushed its way out through his flesh. The other guy had it much worse, having gotten caught up in his machine, and been ripped to shreds.

Illya had tried to get back to his own vehicle but even the tiniest of movements sent searing agony through him. He was left, lying on the ground, waiting for his fate.

He didn't know how long he'd been lying in the baking heat, but after a while he thought he could hear the sound of a helicopter. Illya dismissed the sound, assuming it to be a figment of hi imagination. No-one was coming, so there was no need to get his hopes ups. Even as the noise got closer and he could see a helicopter landing, Illya's befuddled mind refused to believe it was real.

"Tovarisch?"

He knew that voice, and he knew that word. Forcing himself to focus on the face above him, he smiled in recognition.

"Nap'leon. Why you . . . here?"

"You managed to get a channel open," Napoleon explained, as a couple of medics began to treat Illya. "We heard what was going on and figured you'd need help."

"Did I . . . succeed?"

"We flew over the facility and it was absolutely destroyed," Napoleon assured him. "You did good."

Illya smiled again and submitted himself to unconsciousness, still fully convinced he was imaging things.

"We're ready," one of the medics told Napoleon.

"Okay, let's go. It's been a while since my partner here got to terrorize the Nurses in L.A."


	14. Sitting Ducks

Meeting contacts in Central Park was a little too clichéd and contrived for Illya's liking. Admittedly, because of the openness and the amount of people, it was an ideal location, but it always felt like a scene from a bad spy movie to him. Also, thanks to his espionage training and experience, Illya was fairly certain that a good ten percent of the people around him were passing secret information to one another.

The choice of location had been that of the contact, and the only instruction he'd given was for Solo and Kuryakin to be at a certain bench by the lake, at midday. As was usual, the agents arrive at the location ahead of time. They liked to get a lay of land in case problems arose.

"I do not like this," Illya commented, scanning the area. "Everything feels too staged."

"I know what you mean, Tovarisch," Napoleon replied. "But, we have to follow any lead we get. If this turns out to be legitimate we will have the locations of several satrapies."

"That only heightens my suspicions."

Napoleon couldn't help but to agree with his partner. The whole thing felt like a trap, but it wouldn't be the first time they'd knowingly walked into one. Like Illya, he scanned around him for the person who had summoned them there.

Central Park was always a busy place, and there was often more than one event happening at any given time. On this particular day there was a competition for remote controlled aircraft. There were dozens of different miniature airborne vehicles ranging from airplanes to helicopters, and anything in between. One in particular caught Illya's attention, because it was entirely different to any of the others.

Measuring around three feet in length, the miniature airship seemed to be an exact copy of the ill-fated Hindenburg. As he watched it, Illya realised that the airship was no longer amongst the other competitors. Without making it obvious, he alerted Napoleon, who glanced in its direction.

"Am I seeing things, or does that thing have some sort of gun mounted beneath it?"

"It is not your imagination," Illya replied. "What do you suggest we do?"

"Well, it can only shoot at one of us," Napoleon stated.

"So we give whoever is flying it two targets," Illya completed.

Without saying anymore, Napoleon and Illya both dived sideways, in opposite directions. As soon as they moved, the gun on the airship burst into life. Illya was unsurprised that the craft followed him. The universe just seemed to have marked him out as one of life's bulls-eyes. In a move which looked as though it could have been choreographed, both agents rolled, while drawing their weapons. In unison, they fired at the airship, causing two catastrophic breaches in the craft.

The sound of gunfire had naturally caused a commotion and had attracted the attention of every police officer in the vicinity. The agents both pulled out their I.D., ready for the inevitable questions. Although, they each knew dealing with the police was going to be much easier than having to report back to Mr Waverly. The Old Man very much frowned on agents loosing off weapons in crowded areas.

"I tell you what I don't understand," said Napoleon later, when they were finally able to head back to the office. "Why go through that ridiculous rigmarole? We were both pretty much sitting ducks. Anyone with a silenced gun could have taken us out without anybody realising."

"I often wonder about the Thrush mentality," Illya replied. "They seem to have a need to make everything into theatre."

"Whatever their motives, at least it gives us a chance to fight another day."


	15. The Unthinkable

**(Prompt – What if . . . Illya Kuryakin really was working for the Soviets?)**

Napoleon felt like a coward, and it was this cowardice meant he couldn't follow through this course of action face to face with Mr Waverly. The events of the previous two days hung heavy on his heart, and on his mind, because everything he believed in had been swept away.

It was the very early hours of the morning and, although there were still people working in the building, Napoleon was sure that Waverly wasn't one of them. As he walked towards the office of his boss, Napoleon fiddled with the envelope in his hand. The contents within were something he never thought he'd ever write, but so much had changed and he felt that this was his only option. As the door slid open, Napoleon stepped into the darkened room and, after taking a deep breath, he laid the envelope on the table. Deed done, he turned to leave and was startled to find Mr Waverly sitting on the sofa. He seemed to have been waiting for him.

"I will not be accepting your resignation Mr Solo," the Old Man stated, his voice heavy exhaustion.

"You can't expect me to stay after all that has happened," Napoleon replied. "His betrayal reflects on me. Everyone will wonder if I was in collusion with him."

"I can't pretend that it isn't going to be hard, Mr Solo," Waverly answered, getting up to pour his CEA a drink. "But you, indeed all of us, will simply have to ride it out."

"I defended him," Solo said quietly, accepting the drink. "I stood between him and all the accusations that were thrown at him. I argued in side so many times and, although it took time, most people came to my way of thinking ."

"We have been betrayed by agents before," the chief said, not believing his own pragmatism. "No doubt it will happen again in the future."

Napoleon sat down heavily in the armchair and slowly swirled the liquid around his glass.

"This is different."

"He was your partner," Waverly stated, softly. "You're bound to feel differently about this betrayal."

"It's more than that," Napoleon argued. "He was my closest friend. I trusted him more than any other person I've ever had in my life. I put my life into his hands knowing that he always had my back. To think that he was passing secret backs to Moscow this whole time hurts me more than I thought imaginable. It would have been less painful had he been killed."

Waverly had no answer for the younger man. He fully understood where Solo was coming from as he was feeling quite hurt himself. He had welcomed Illya Kuryakin with open arms and, seeing his potential, had elevated him through the ranks quite quickly. When he'd partnered him with Solo he had been surprised at how well the two men worked together. In fact, they had been the most successful team in U.N.C.L.E. history.

"I shouldn't need to resign," Napoleon said, downing his drink. "By rights, you should have fired me."

"And why would that be, Mr Solo?"

"I could have brought him into our custody but, instead, I watched his plane carrying him out of the country."

"Anyone in that situation would have found it impossible to perform their duty," Waverly assured him. "I do not place any blame on your shoulders. However, from this moment on, Illya Kuryakin is an enemy of U.N.C.L.E. and I will expect you to do what you must."

Napoleon nodded sadly, hoping that he would never see the man again. He honestly wasn't sure he would have the strength to deal with him.

"Why are you still here, Sir?" he asked suddenly. "Won't Mrs Waverly be worried?"

"She knows the situation," the Old Man replied. "Plus, I've been arguing with the Kremlin for several hours. They are adamant Kuryakin hasn't been working for them, and I must say that I am now inclined to agree with them. There are others in Moscow who would pay for our secrets."

Waverly poured himself and Solo another drink.

"Please don't resign, Napoleon," he asked, with a vulnerability the younger man had never heard before. "We have a huge amount of damage limitation to get through, and I need someone who knows how Kuryakin thinks."

Napoleon swallowed his drink, before standing up and retrieving his letter from the table. He respected Alexander Waverly far too much to leave him in the lurch. Tucking the envelope into his jacket pocket he bid his boss goodnight.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Sir."


	16. Shooting Match

Three men all faced their respective targets, and waited for their signal. In the middle of the trio was Illya Kuryakin, who was a patient man. The two men either side of him were also patient, but they lacked the ability to be a still as the Russian. It was a skill he had learned at a very young age; one which had served him well.

To Illya's right stood his partner, Napoleon Solo. The fingers of the American's right hand were twitching in readiness. It was an affectation he had picked up from watching too many cowboy movies. To Illya's write was U.N.C.L.E.'s British agent, Mark Slate. He too was almost perfectly still, apart from a slight tapping of his left thumb against his leg.

Behind the men April Dancer stood. She had refused outright to take part in what she'd termed an 'ego driven pissing contest'. It had started out as a bit of friendly banter about who was the best shot. This had quickly escalated in to a full blown war. Napoleon had suggested a competition and April had been persuaded to adjudicate. To make it harder, they had to go from a holstered start. So far, they had all won three rounds each. Growing bored, April had insisted that the tenth round be the final and deciding round.

Taking a deep breath, April blew her whistle. The three men each snatched their weapons and emptied them into the human shaped targets. When they finished they put the guns away and April walked over to inspect the damaged.

"It's a tie," she declared.

"Oh, come on love," Mark beseeched. "You could at least side with your partner."

"Check them for yourselves," she told him.

Mark, Napoleon, and Illya all inspected the targets and had to conclude that she was right. None of them wanted to, but they had to admit that they were equal in this respect.

"I still think you should have joined in," Mark said. "Even just to show us what you've got."

"I'll show you what I've got," she replied, reaching into the canary yellow purse, which contrasted her pale yellow dress.

Pulling out her gun, she fired every bullet, before blowing the end of the barrel and slipping the weapon back into her purse.

"See you later boys,"

As she swept out of the firing range, the three men turned back to target and mentally crossed their legs. Where they had aimed for the head and the heart, April's shots had left a gaping hole in the target's groin area.


	17. Dog's Life

Illya was listening to light jazz on the car radio while he waited for his partner to pick up the dead drop. He watched with mild disinterest as, what looked like a Welsh terrier, shot out from the alley and darted in front of the car. Luckily for the animal, the street was deserted. A few seconds later, Napoleon also exited the alley at speed.

"Where did the dog go?" he yelled over to his partner, as he ran past.

"That way," Illya called back, while pointing.

"Don't just sit there. The damn thing has the package."

Illya immediately jump out of the vehicle and tore off after his partner, and the dog. He caught up with them at the end of another alley across street. Napoleon had the dog, which seemed to be choking.

"What size is the package?" Illya asked as he squatted down to help. It obviously had to be smaller than usual in order to fit in a dog's throat.

"It's a small ball-shaped capsule," Solo replied. "I was just reaching for it when the animal came out of nowhere, saw what I was going for, and grabbed it. It obviously thought it was for playing with."

"We need to get the animal to a veterinarian," Illya stated, after concluding they weren't able to do anything themselves. "We passed one about a block away from here."

Napoleon didn't bother to ask how Illya had noticed a veterinarian's office. His partner always took note of his surroundings in case there was something in the vicinity which may be useful to him. Solo picked up the dog and the agents ran back to the vehicle. As soon as they were in, Illya roared away.

It took less than two minutes to reach the veterinarian's office. In the back seat of the car, Napoleon continued to try and extract the capsule. The animal was becoming extremely distressed and was thrashing about quite a bit. Upon arrival, the pair burst into the office and shouted for help.

The next few minutes seemed to go by in blur. The receptionist called out for the vet, Dr Adams, who came out to see what the commotion was. As soon as he realised that the dog had something lodged, he grabbed the animal and carried it through to his surgery. Napoleon and Illya followed close on his heels. After sedating the dog, Dr Adams easily pulled the capsule free. He handed it to Napoleon.

"This really isn't a suitable toy," he admonished them. "You should have something bigger."

"It isn't a toy at all," Napoleon explained. "And this dog doesn't belong to either of us."

"Then whose is it?"

"We do not know," Illya told him. "It was loose on the street."

"He doesn't have a collar, and I don't know of any missing animals."

"What'll happen to him?" Napoleon asked, concerned for the animals future.

"He'll go to the pound," Dr Adams told him. "Hopefully someone will want to adopt him. If not . . ."

"Please don't finish that sentence," said Napoleon, hurriedly.

Illya regarded his partner with interest. He had a strange look on his face which Illya knew was going to mean trouble from Mr Waverly.

Sure enough a couple of hours later, the dog was climbing all over the sofa in the Old Man's office.

"Did you get the package translations?" Waverly asked, his eyes never leaving the dog.

"Yes Sir," Napoleon and Illya chorused in unison.

"What is the explanation for your four legged companion?"

"He's a stray, Sir" Solo told him. "I was hoping someone here would like to take him on."

Waverly chewed on the end of his pipe and seemed to be weighing up the pros and cons of adopting it himself. Illya would have laid money on him blowing his top, but he hadn't.

"It is my wife's birthday in three days," Waverly said thoughtfully. "She has said many times she would like another dog, but doesn't have the patience for a puppy."

"He'll be perfect for her," Napoleon agreed, knowing that his boss had already convinced himself.

"I cannot believe you got away with that," Illya commented later on. "How did you know he would take him."

"That's easy," Napoleon replied. "I was chatting to Mrs Waverly last week while I was reviewing their domestic security arrangements. She mentioned to me that she would like a dog."

Illya laughed. Napoleon's scheming gave Waverly's own a run for its money. The CEA was definitely the perfect choice as heir apparent.


	18. If the Cap Fits

Andrea Phillips looked up as the door to her department opened, and smiled warmly as Illya Kuryakin entered. Like many of the women in U.N.C.L.E., she had quite a soft spot for the quiet young man, and harboured dreams of getting a date with him. She knew, of course, that there would be no chance of anything long term, and realistically she didn't want to get romantically tangled with someone who could get killed any day. However, the thought of one evening staring into those dreamy blue eyes and nibbling on that gorgeous bottom lip had her hear beating a samba rhythm.

"Good morning, Mr Kuryakin," she greeted him. "What can I help you with today?"

"I am to be a chauffeur once again, Miss Phillips," he replied, returning her smile. "So, as they say, 'the usual, please'."

Andrea laughed at Illya's joke and went to fetch what he needed. She was in charge of the care and maintenance of all the disguises and costumes an agent may need. She had the measurements of all the agents on file but, she didn't need to look Illya's up. He was a regular visitor to her domain, so she knew his sizes very well. She wished she could say 'inside and out'.

Illya caught himself staring the perfection of Andrea's figure as she disappeared through the door to the storeroom. The uniforms for female staff had recently been changed to brown pencil skirts and yellow tops. The ladies could choose between a blouse and a sweater, and Illya couldn't help admiring how well Andrea filled out her sweater.

"Does that partner of yours never take his turn at playing the part of a driver?" she asked, when she returned with a grey uniform and cap.

Illya almost snorted at the suggestion.

"Napoleon insists that he doesn't have the right look to be driver," he said with a laugh.

"And here's me thinking that was what disguises were for," Mary said, handing Illya the requisition sheet for him to sign.

"I don't really mind all that much," the agent told her, with a slight shrug. "I quite enjoy driving. Although, it would be nice for him to take his turn when we have to drive to an assignment."

"Maybe you could drive me somewhere someday," Andrea suddenly blurted out.

The thought had been in her head but she'd had no intention of voicing it. Her face and neck turned almost scarlet as she blushed with acute embarrassment.

Illya raised an eyebrow, half in surprise and half in amusement. He held his hand out for the uniform and smiled reassuringly at her.

"Are you free tomorrow evening?" he asked.

"Yes," Andrea squeaked. She was mortified by her impropriety.

"Good, I shall pick you up at 7:30," he stated. "Maybe I could wear the uniform. Or, maybe just the cap."

"I shall look forward to it," Andrea replied, trying to regain her composure.

The door opened suddenly and Napoleon Solo stuck is head into the room. He took in the scene before him and narrowed his eyes with suspicion.

"Are you ready, Tovarisch?"

Illya bade farewell to Andrea and joined his partner in the corridor.

"Is there something I should know about?" Solo asked.

"Nyet," replied Illya with a shake of the head. "Nothing you need to know."

Illya smiled at Napoleon's look of annoyance and began to plan where he could take Andrea for dinner which would require a drive.


	19. La Torre di Pisa

Illya leaned over his partner's shoulder in order to get a good look at their travel plans. Napoleon was sitting at his desk, writing extra notes on the information he'd been given.

"Our flight is at 9 am," Solo told the other man. "We should be in Pisa by about 6 pm. That will give us two hours to reconnoitre before our target arrives."

U.N.C.L.E. New York had received a tip off that a Thrush bigwig had scheduled a clandestine meeting at La Torre di Pisa. The organisations internal machinery had immediately set to work. Flights and hotel rooms were booked for Solo and Kuryakin. Agents in Italy were sent to Pisa to sniff out any scrap of information that could be found, in preparation for the pair. As well as this, several people were tasked with tracing the source of the information and attempting to discover the name of the bigwig.

"We don't need two hours for reconnaissance," Illya commented. "We could fit a quick dinner in when we arrive."

"I'm sure they'll provide food on the airplane, Tovarisch," Napoleon replied with a chuckle.

Glancing up at his partner he noticed fleeting look of disappointment cross his face.

"Maybe we can pick something up," he conceded. "Is your go bag and passport here or at your apartment?"

"Both, but my passport is at home."

"Great, I think it'll be best to go straight to the airport in the morning."

"Agreed," Illya answered. "You live closer to the airport so I'll get a taxicab and pick you up on the way."

Both men looked round as the door to their office opened and Angie Cooper entered, carrying a file.

"This is what has been discovered about the source of the tip," she said, handing the file to Illya.

"It's a man named Armando Carluccio," the Russian read out. "He acts as liaison between Thrush and the Mafia."

"There's a job I wouldn't want," Solo commented drily.

"Oooooh, there's a new restaurant called that in Queens," said Angie suddenly.

"Called what?" Solo asked her, ignoring the exasperated expression of Illya.

"La Torre di Pisa," she answered. "My sister lives a few streets away and she took me there last week. Their coffee gelato is divine."

"Yes, well, thank you for the file, Miss Cooper," said Illya, hustling the woman out of the office.

Turning back to Napoleon, he found the CEA looking puzzled.

"What is wrong?"

"What if that restaurant is location of the meeting?" Solo suggested. "We may be barking up the wrong tree in thinking the tip off meant the Leaning Tower of Pisa."

"I do not know what you mean by barking up trees, but you could be correct about the restaurant," Illya replied. "The message we got was in English, yet the location was in Italian. Why not imply use one language or the other?"

"I think we need to consult Mr Waverly."

….

"Hmm, this is quite a wrinkle," Waverly muttered, as he pondered the problem. "We can't risk letting this man out of our grasp."

"I do have a suggestion, Sir," Napoleon stated.

"Well, out with it man. I haven't yet developed the ability to read minds."

"Illya and I will go to Pisa as planned," Solo explained. "Another team could be dispatched to the restaurant."

"I was thinking along those lines myself," the Old Man answered. "Although I'm not sure how accounting will feel about a trip to Italy which may turn out to be a wild goose chase."

"You said yourself we can't risk losing Carluccio," Napoleon countered "It's a necessary expense."

"Quite correct, Mr Solo. As the assigned time will happen for you several hours before it will for us, we will have plenty of time to send agents to the restaurant."

…..

Two days later, Napoleon and Illya arrived back in New York. When it was ascertained that that meeting had indeed been scheduled to happen in the 'La Torre di Pisa' restaurant, Waverly had ordered the air home on the next available flight. He'd claimed he didn't want to cause the accountants any undue distress.

The operation to take Carluccio was smooth and successful and had bagged U.N.C.L.E. a big fish. More importantly, Illya had been able to enjoy a large Italian feast before returning to America; on expenses, of course.


	20. Overt Concealment

As soon as it was announced that there was an opening for a Section 2 agent, and that it would be filled by a Section 3 agent, dozens put their name down. Most Section 3s were happy with their positions, but there were some who had seen it as a consolation prize. The applicants had been whittled down to three people, who had to compete with each other to prove their worthiness. This was done in the form of an intensive training refresher, alongside several lectures. The problem was, all three were equally matched, and it was proving difficult to decide which of them had the edge. A different type of test was needed.

On the final day, Ellie Richardson, Jon Evans, and William Noble headed to the commissary after a morning of 'How to conceal yourself in plain sight'.

"It's a pity Kuryakin wasn't available today after all," Jon commented, as the tree of them sat down with their food.

"Yeah," Ellie agreed. "The guy is annoying, but he's a master of concealment. Most people need at least a shadow to hide in, but I've heard he can hide in well-lit, empty room."

"He's good, yeah," William chimed it, "But that might be overstating his abilities."

As he spoke, he glanced around the room at the other diners. There were the usual gaggles of female employees, a few Section 2s, and a table of scientists from the lab. William grimaced at the horrible crimson shirt that one of the lab boys was wearing under his white coat, but then dismissed him as his attention was called back to his colleagues.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"What do you think your chances are?" Ellie replied.

"I think we all have an equal chance." Noble replied, glancing back at the man in the awful shirt. "Do you know that guy in the corner?"

Ellie and Jon both looked over.

"He looks familiar," Jon answered. "I've definitely seen him around. After a while all those lab rats start looking the same."

William stared hard the man. He looked smaller than the men around him, and he had dark brown hair which was combed flat, and parted quite severely, in the centre. He was also wearing wire-framed glasses, which highlighted his brown eyes.

"Are you okay, Will?"

"Yeah," he replied. "I'm just distracted thinking about this afternoon."

Try as he might, however, William couldn't stop looking at the crimson shirted scientist. There was something about the man's mannerisms which reminded him of someone else, and then he noticed his hands. They seemed slightly bigger than you would expect of a smaller man.

"Back in a minute," he mumbled to the others, as he got up and left the table.

William walked over to the corner with the scientists.

"Excuse me, Mr Kuryakin?"

The man in the crimson shirt smiled broadly and, standing up, shook William's hand.

"Congratulations, Mr Noble," he said warmly. "Let us join your colleagues."

Sitting down with the three hopefuls, Illya explained how concealment was about more than just hiding.

"I have merely changed my appearance slightly, and it was enough to make me almost invisible," he told them. "This is particularly useful for infiltrating large gatherings. Thanks to this little deception, we are now in a position to offer the Section 2 post to one of you. I imagine you are able to guess who it is to be."

Ellie and Jon both congratulated William.

"You didn't recognise me at first," Illya told the new Section 2 agent. "But, I could tell by the way you kept looking over that your instincts were telling you something wasn't right. Report to Mr Solo when you have finished your lunch."

When Illya had left the three of them, William couldn't keep the grin from his face. From the moment he had been recruited, his ambition had been to be a Section 2 agent. He'd finally made it.


	21. Shut Up and Drive

Alvin Brown cursed loudly as the light turned to red, and he was forced to stop. Despite there being no other traffic he chose to wait, rather than jump the light. He'd tried that the previous week but the sheriff had been waiting to pounce on anyone who did just that.

As he waited for the green light, his rear door was suddenly opened, and a man in an expensive suit dived into the vehicle. He was clearly hiding from someone because he crouched down in the space between the front and back seats.

"I need a ride to the next town," the man told him.

"Hey man, I don't give rides to fugitives."

"I'm not a fugitive," the man replied. "But I do need to get to the next town without being seen."

Alvin's heart froze in his chest when he turned to face the guy saw him reaching into his jacket. He felt certain a gun was about to be pulled on him and audibly sighed in relief when a wallet was produced instead. The guy in the sharp suit counted out several bills and handed them over. Even though Alvin still had his doubts about the guy, fifty bucks was fifty bucks.

"Don't talk to me, or look back at me," the guy instructed. "I can't risk anyone realising where I am."

Alvin took the money and turned back just as the lights turned to green. Partway through the two mile journey, he heard the guy fumbling around, and then say, "open channel D." Alvin was about to reply that he didn't understand what he meant when he heard another, quieter, voice and realised he must have some sort of walkie-talkie.

"Napoleon, where are you?" asked the voice, which had a slight accent. "You've been silent for twenty-four hours."

"Don't say you were worried about me, Tovarisch."

"I was merely concerned about the money you still owe me."

"I'll get it back to you on Friday, along with the fifty I need to borrow this evening. Anyway, I got the package, and I'm on my way back. Should be home in four hours or so."

"We will be waiting."

Alvin was desperate to know who the guy was in the back of his car, but kept his mouth shut. From the conversation he'd heard he was sure he was some sort of spy. The only other words he heard from him were a brief 'thank you' from the guy as he got out. Alvin looked around to see where the guy was going, but there was no sign of him. If it hadn't been for the very real cash he had in his pocket, he could almost have convinced himself the incident hadn't happened.


	22. The Shoe is On the Other Foot

Napoleon looked at his communicator with a puzzled expression. He could hear the sound of liquid being poured into a glass.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Preparing dinner," Illya replied. "I have just poured a dry white wine to go with the fish. How is your assignment going? Do you need me for anything?"

"You can stop tormenting me with talk your home-cooked food for one thing," Solo answered, a little sulkily.

Illya could almost hear his partner drooling, and allowed himself a slight smile.

"I take it the food where you are is not up to your usual epicurean standards."

"There's a single diner, which isn't the cleanest place I've been in," Solo told him. "I swear one of the rats in that place was actually cooking the food. I'll be glad when this job is over."

The people of a small town in the middle of nowhere had discovered gold beneath the town, and it was just the sort of event Thrush liked to get in on. Solo had been dispatched to see if anyone would show up.

"So, is there a reason for your call," Illya asked. "Or is it simply that you are bored."

"Nothing gets passed you does it?"

"I take it none of the ladies at HQ are available,"

"You wound me, Tovarisch," Napoleon feigned hurt. "Maybe I just wanted to chat with my closest friend."

"And now the truth."

"Fine. Mr Waverly has banned me from calling the office except for official business," Napoleon admitted. "He's says I distract the ladies from their duty."

Before Illya could answer, there was a ring on his doorbell.

"Are you expecting company?" Napoleon asked, feeling even more jealous. "Who is she?"

"That is for me to know," Illya replied. "I will talk to you tomorrow, my friend."

With that, Illya closed the channel, leaving Napoleon gaping at his communicator.


	23. Courage

The darkening grey sky held a promise of the snow storm to come as Illya Kuryakin bade farewell to his friend, Volodya. Russia had made a deal with the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement which had resulted in Illya being given over to up a role as an U.N.C.L.E. agent. He had enjoyed his days of studying in Europe, but it would be very different to work there.

"I am glad you are being sent to one of the European headquarters," Volodya told him. "I would hate to think you were going to America."

"I will go where I am sent," Illya replied simply.

In truth, he tried to tell himself that he was glad of that also. However, he had no doubt he would end up there one day. Ever since he had been told of his reassignment he had wondered where his life was going to go. Living and working outside of the U.S.S.R. would allow him freedoms he did not have at home, and the prospect of working in the U.S.A. held a strange fascination for him.

"I admire your courage, friend," Volodya continued. "It is a brave thing you are doing."

"I am in no way courageous," Illya told him, continuing to stare at the clouds. "Courage is what is required when you are given a choice and you opt for the one which could cause you grief. In this instance, I have not been given the choice, therefore courage isn't necessary."

Volodya suddenly burst out laughing and slapped his friend on the shoulder.

"Illyusha, you are far too serious sometimes," he stated. "And, I for one, am going to miss that."

Illya finally looked at Volodya. The ice in his glare melted, and a broad smile spilt his face.

"I will miss you also, my friend," he replied, pulling the other man into a hug.


	24. Lock-in

Professor Louisa Duffy was a chemist of some renown, and U.N.C.L.E. had heard rumours she was about to sell her latest formula to Thrush. It wasn't known what the formula was, but it was decided that it would be better for all concerned to keep it out of Thrush's hands.

Napoleon Solo had spent twenty minutes infiltrating the facility, or which Professor Duffy was the head. Upon reaching the basement level, where it had been discovered a large vault was housed, Napoleon was a little surprised to find the lights on and the vault open. It was 3:30 am, so there shouldn't be anyone around. Solo pulled out hi communicator and called up his partner, who was waiting outside.

"The vault is open," he whispered. "I thought intelligence had ascertained that only a security team would be in the building."

"They did," Illya replied. "Be careful how you proceed. I will get on to HQ and ask if they know what is happening. If you aren't out in an hour I will come in after you."

Tucking the communicator away, Napoleon silently walked towards the open door. Peering around the door, he was astonished to find Angelique. She was dressed black pants and a black turtle neck, which disconcertingly reminded him of Illya. Shaking the disturbing thought from is head he stepped into the vault.

"Bonjour, ma Cherie," he greeted.

Angelique froze before turning around. Realizing that it was Napoleon, she immediately dropped her guard and brushed her back from her face.

"I did not expect to see you here, darling," she purred.

"Nor I you," Solo replied. "Why would Thrush need to steal what they are going to get given?"

"What are you talking about?" Angelique asked, clearly perplexed. "It is your annoying organisation to which Professor Duffy is giving her allegiance."

Unseen by either of them until it was too late, the door to the vault was closed, and the lights within were turned off. Napoleon retrieved a small flashlight from one of his pockets and inspected the door.

"We are trapped," he told his fellow captive.

"I get the feeling that we were lured here deliberately," the blonde answered. "What do you propose we do?"

"When I don't reappear after an hour, Illya will come in and rescue me."

He shone the flashlight in Angelique's direction and couldn't fail to miss the look of distaste on her face. Napoleon couldn't help but smile. Hell would freeze over before Angelique and Illya accepted each other. He tried calling his partner, but he couldn't get a signal through the thick walls of the vault.

"Well then, darling," Angelique said, as she licked her lips. "What shall we do to fill the time?"

…..

An hour and ten minutes later, Illya arrived at the vault and found it locked. He hadn't heard from Napoleon since he had reported the door open, and some information from HQ had concerned him greatly. He was in no doubt that Napoleon had been locked into the vault, and he was certain he wouldn't find him alone.

It didn't take Illya long to break into the vault. He was an expert safe-cracker and, to his mind, a vault was just a larger version. Pulling the door open, he found his partner, and Angelique, standing at opposite sides. They were both dishevelled and Angelique's lipstick was smeared across her face and Napoleon's.

"It's about time you got here, Tovarisch," Napoleon stated, by way of greeting. "We were in danger of suffocating in here."

"You would have been fine for several hours," Illya told him flatly. "Unless you were doing something to use the oxygen up more quickly."

"Why are you always such a miserable little runt?" Angelique sneered.

"I am a reflection of the company I am in," the Russian replied, not changing his tone. "I have information which both of you may be interested in."

"And what would that be?"

"Professor Duffy has had no dealings with either Thrush or U.N.C.L.E." Illya told them. "This whole thing was a trap designed to eliminate both of you. Someone at Thrush is not happy with your dalliances."

"Do you know who?" Angelique demand.

"No, but I assume it will take you a long time to work through the list of people who hate you."

"Let's get out of here," Napoleon suggested, stepping between the pair. "I'm sure this is an argument which can wait for another time."


	25. May the Better Man Win

"I hate these things," complained Illya Kuryakin, pulling on his bow tie.

"Ties?" asked his partner, scanning the room.

"Receptions," the Russian replied. "We are inside HQ, so there are plenty of Section 3 agents here for security. Why do I need to be here?"

"Because you are here in your role of Number 2, Section 2,"

The reception was being held by Mr Waverly for the important people in New York. Although U.N.C.L.E. was not tied to a single country, having the Northwest HQ in New York meant pandering to the people who ran the place. The event was already into the third hour, and Illya was tiring of what Napoleon insisted on calling 'schmoozing'. The American, of course, seemed to be in his element. There was always the chance it was all an act but, when given the chance to show off, Solo usually enjoyed it. Besides, there were many beautiful women at the reception, and Napoleon was determined to end the evening with a date.

"That woman seems to be coming this way," Illya commented, bracing himself for another inane conversation.

Napoleon followed his partner's gaze and smiled. The woman was a tall red-head and was wearing black velvet gown which accented every curve. As she approached, Napoleon held out a had to take hers, and he kissed the back of it. She accepted his gesture, but kept her eyes on Illya.

"I hate these things," she said to him. "They are so tedious. I'm Emily Hall, by the way, the Mayor's assistant."

She took her hand back from Napoleon and turned to shake Illya's

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hall," he said. "I am Illya Kuryakin, and this is Napoleon Solo. I too am not fond of such gatherings."

"I find they can be good for meeting interesting people," Solo chipped in, trying pull Miss Hall's attention away from Illya.

"That is a very rare occurrence," she told him, hardly looking his way. "But there are occasions when someone takes my interest."

Illya looked to Napoleon and noticed he was sporting his sour expression. It was one he usually reserved for when he lost out on a woman to another man; especially if that man was Illya.

"May I get you a glass of punch, Miss Hall?" he asked.

"Only if you promise to call me Emily."

She hooked arm into Illya's and the pair walked away from Napoleon. The Russian turned back to him and couldn't help but smirk. The CEA didn't sulk for long however and quickly set his sights on a brunette on the other side of the room.


	26. A Work of Art

There had been many occasions in which Illya Kuryakin had ended up naked. Thrush seemed to think that stripping a prisoner of his clothes also stripped him of his dignity. In his early days at U.N.C.L.E. this had indeed been the case, but Illya had quickly gotten over it. Dignity was a luxury an agent could ill afford. This time, however, Illya's nudity was a part of the assignment; not that this fact made it any easier to bear.

He was supposed to be receiving a microfilm from a contact, who had insisted on the meeting taking place in a life drawing class. Several agents had been mooted for the assignment but, despite being his partner, Napoleon had chosen Illya. The CEA had insisted that the Russian was the best man for the job, given what he had heard the ladies of U.N.C.L.E. saying about him.

As a result, Illya found himself standing in front of a group of female art students, half of whom didn't seem to be doing much by way of painting. He tried to close his ears to what they saying to each other, but it was impossible. These women were definitely members of the permissive society, and they weren't shy about expressing exactly what they wanted to do with the man in front of them. Illya had been witness to many risqué things around the world, but the things the women were saying made him blush a bright shade of pink.

Every single aspect of his physique was discussed; with the general consensus being that he was 'probably wonderfully flexible'. One of the women wondered how good his stamina was, while another stated she could happily just look at him.

Finally, after an hour, Illya's ordeal was over. As he was dressing, the teacher handed him a package.

"Here's your fee," she said, with a smile. "And there's a little something extra in there for you."

Illya nodded in acknowledgment of the code phrase and, after taking the package, he left the building as quickly as possible. Napoleon Solo was going to have a lost to answer for.


	27. King of the Castle

"Good morning, April," Illya greeted as he passed her in the door of the commissary. "I am unable to stop, but Napoleon is in there."

April smiled a greeting in return, which got bigger when she took in the scene within. Many of the women had clearly just watched the Russian leave, which had resulted in a look of puzzled consternation on the face of Napoleon Solo. After getting her coffee she sat down opposite him.

"You're jealous," she stated.

"Jealous of whom?" Napoleon asked, with a frown.

"Illya, of course," April told him. "Everyone knows you're the ladies' man around here, but you have to work at it. He gets adoration without even trying. You expend a lot of time, money, and energy on each woman, which they appreciate, but which they also expect. Dating you is a two way deal, in which each party is using the other. Don't get me wrong, everyone gets what they want, but every woman here knows what they'll get from you. For a spy, you're an exceptionally open book."

"That doesn't explain why you think I'm jealous of Illya."

"It's simple. He is mystery personified," she explained. "Illya is a shy and private man. He rarely lets people get close, he doesn't open up about his life, and his background is practically top secret. The mystery is part of what makes him attractive."

Napoleon huffed. He honestly didn't think he was jealous of his partner, but he had to admit he could occasionally get a little envious of the effortless way he attracted women.

"Okay," he replied. "I get the mystery thing, but that alone wouldn't leave a trail of swooning women."

"You're right," April agreed. "But, add the shyness, and the exceptional cuteness, and it's like catnip."

"Cuteness?" Napoleon echoed, with incredulity.

"I don't wish to massage your ego, Napoleon, but I can't deny that you are a very handsome man. With those warm brown eyes, chiselled jaw, and million watt smile, you are more than nice to look at. However, you know it, and you use that to your advantage. Illya, on the hand, isn't so obvious."

April paused momentarily to take a sip of her coffee, and to enjoy Napoleon's conflicted expression. He seemed to be both pleased at April's description of him, while also being annoyed that she thought he was obvious.

"Let me explain," she continued. "Illya is not naïve, and he is just as good as you at using his looks to get what he wants, when he needs to. However, he genuinely doesn't seem to realise what he does to people all the time. The little half smile, the way he looks through his eyelashes, and even that scruffy blond mop of hair have women lusting after him. Then there are his eyes. Those bright blue pools, with which he can freeze an enemy with an icy steel glare, often make him look so vulnerable that the ladies just want to hug him."

She leant over and patted Napoleon's hand.

"Don't worry. You're still the king of the castle when it comes to dating."

Before she'd even reached the end of the sentence, Napoleon's attention was taken by the entrance of a new staff member.

"I gotta go," he said hurriedly to April, before darting off to introduce himself.

"I doubt that crown will be lost any time soon," Miss Dancer muttered, with a wry smile.


	28. The 'You Are Getting Very Sleepy' Affair

The brilliant blue eyes, which belonged to Illya Kuryakin, tracked the gold pocket watch as it swung like a pendulum in front of him. Izaak Marut, the man holding the watch, smiled gleefully as the Russian .L.E. agent fell under his spell. He was practically jumping for joy at the blank expression of his victim. Marut had spent a long time studying the hypnotic arts and had managed to persuade Thrush Central that he could destroy U.N.C.L.E. using one of its top agents.

Across the room, gagged and tightly bound to chair, Napoleon Solo watched as his partner succumbed to the hypnosis. He was surprised that Illya was so susceptible to a technique more commonly employed by low-rent stage hypnotists. However, the more he watched, the more he slipped away.

"So, Kuryakin," Marut began. "You are entirely under my control and will do everything I instruct. Do you understand?"

"Yes," droned Illya, without any sort of inflection.

Feeling as though he was somehow standing in for Illya, Napoleon rolled his eyes at the cheesiness of the whole thing. There was something about Thrush which seemed to attract those who society would deem as slightly odd.

"I am going to untie you now," the hypnotist continued. "When I finish, you will go immediately to U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. Once there, you will construct a bomb and place it where it will cause the most damage. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Illya repeated.

As soon as he was free, Illya took two steps towards the door, before spinning around and landing a hard punch to Marut's head. The man was unconscious before he hit the floor. Illya quickly crossed the room to release his partner.

"I knew you couldn't have been mesmerised that easily," Solo commented.

"Did you doubt it?"

"Well, I know you're a good actor, but you did seem fairly far gone."

Illya huffed with indignation.

"Between my U.N.C.L.E. training, and my KGB training, a cheap party trick was hardly likely to work."

"My apologies," Napoleon replied, with a smile. "Let's get this guy back to HQ. It looks like we have another one for our megalomaniac collection.


	29. Almost

He wasn't sad, he wasn't afraid, and he wasn't angry. The only emotion his death was giving him was the regret that he was alone. He smiled to himself at that thought. There had once been a time when being alone was very much his preference.

Growing up, Illya Kuryakin had learned, through painful experience, that trust and friendship could be a dangerous thing. As a result, he had become accustomed to keeping his own company. Even after moving to Europe, Illya found it difficult to get close to anyone. He trusted people to do their jobs but, when it came to anything personal, he still found it impossible to open up to anyone.

It wasn't until he was partnered with Napoleon Solo that he'd learned what it felt like to bare your soul to another person without the fear that it would be used against you. Of course, it had taken a few years to get to that point, but it was still something his younger self would never have believed could happen. What made it an even bigger astonishment was that Napoleon was an American; his supposed enemy.

Napoleon had saved his life on many occasions, but this time he would not be coming. Illya's life would end in solitude.

Solo had reached the age of forty several months previously and was therefore forced to retire from the field. He was now shadowing Waverly in preparation for taking over as chief. Illya was just over a month away from that golden number. He'd almost made it.

Almost.

Now he was lying at the bottom of a ravine, having been thrown down by a Thrush who was much younger and much fitter than he was. Illya wasn't exactly unfit, but there are some things about aging which just couldn't be denied. No matter how well a person looked after themselves, a man of almost forty was nearly always slower than a man in his early twenties. That was the main reason agents were retired from the field at a relatively early age. When he'd reached for his communicator to call for help he'd found it gone. It had seemingly slipped from his pocket during his tumble.

Night was falling again. Illya had already spent one night under the stars and felt certain h wouldn't see the end of this one. He could feel death creeping into his core, and the pain from his injuries was dulling.

It was time to go.

Illya closed his eyes and began to let himself drift away, but he was suddenly dragged back by the sound of voices calling his name. He vaguely recognised them but couldn't bring their names to mind. It wasn't until he opened his eyes again that he realised the voices belonged to two of the new agents. They were Adam Hislop and his partner, Helene Cloutier.

"Mr Kuryakin," Helene said, with relief. "Thank God we found you!"

Behind her, Adam could be heard calling for a helicopter.

"Mr Solo was worried sick when you missed several scheduled call-ins," Helene continued. "We managed to trace the general area of communicator and Mr Solo sent us out here with orders not to come back without you."

Illya smiled. Napoleon had saved his life after all.


	30. Quiet Time

People thought that the life of a Section 2 U.N.C.L.E. agent was all action, glamour, and sex. The truth was far more mundane; especially for Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. Admittedly, there was a fair amount of action for them but, because Napoleon was CEA, and Illya was his second in command, they had quite a lot of routine admin to get through also. As well as their own mission reports, they had section evaluations to perform, security reports to overlook, agent training to organise, and many other things.

Illya looked up from his typewriter at the sound of a deep sigh from Napoleon.

"Are you bored, my friend?"

"To the point of frustration," Napoleon replied, with a heavy voice. "When I was a green, wet-behind-the-ears, newly graduated agent, I didn't realise that the future would hold this much office work."

"Rank has its privileges," Illya told him, with a slight shrug. "But it also means responsibility."

"Tell me about it," the other man grumbled. "I almost find myself wishing for an unexpected assignment."

Illya didn't reply. He was actually enjoying the quiet time. He had returned from the last assignment with another collection of injuries so was happy to remain at HQ for another few days at least.

"Have you got much to do?" Napoleon asked, sounding suspiciously hopeful.

Kuryakin raised an eyebrow, knowing exactly where his partner's question was leading.

"I have at least another four hours of work here," he lied. "You'll have to do yours yourself."

Napoleon failed to conceal a sour look. He had been hoping to persuade Illya to take on his pile of paperwork so that he could go and hang out in the typing pool.

"You don't have a very high opinion of me, Tovarisch," he remarked.

"I regard you with the highest esteem, respect, and affection, Napoleon, but I also know you far too well."

The two men fell silent once again. For several minutes the only sounds which could be heard were the clickety-clack of Illya's typewriter, and the scratch of Napoleon's pen. Both men were slightly startled when the telephone broke the hush.

"Solo," Napoleon said as he picked up the receiver.

He listened for some time before saying, "Yes, Sir. We'll leave as soon as we are ready."

"Do we have an assignment?" asked Illya.

"Yes," Napoleon confirmed. "I should be careful what I wish for. Get yourself sorted. We're going to Bolivia."


	31. The Recruiter

It had been three weeks since Illya Kuryakin had joined the Senshi Martial Arts Studio. His assignment was to discover whether the judo instructor, William Carr, was a Thrush recruiter but, thus far, he had been unsuccessful.

Initial investigations had revealed that neither a communicator signal, nor a listening device, could penetrate the walls of the studio. This meant that their first plan, to bug the place, was abandoned. Due to his excellent judo skills, it was decided that Illya would join the studio as a member. He was to investigate from within and, if possible, get Carr to recruit him. It was hoped he would be given the location of a Thrush training centre.

However, after three weeks, nothing seemed to be forthcoming. If it hadn't been for the suspicious signal blocking, Waverly would have ended the assignment already. Coming out of the changing rooms, William Carr greeted Illya, who was going by the name Nicholas Kingsley, and asked him if he would like to spar. Illya agreed and the two men spent the following hour battling; each man the equal of the other. Although Carr was twice Illya's size their wins evened out.

At the end, after giving what turned out to be an impromptu demonstration to other members, Carr took Illya to one side.

"What do you do for a living Nick?" he asked.

"I work for an import/export company," Illya told him, using the standard lie. "I deal with Eastern Europe."

"I thought I could detect an accent."

Illya had altered his accent to sound more English, but this still left a trace. It had the advantage of being European without actually pinpointing his country of origin.

"I have a proposition for you," Carr continued, "If you're open to it."

"I have been thinking of moving on," Illya told him. "My business is not exactly a thrill ride, so I would like to find a job which is slightly more taxing."

"In that case, I can definitely help you."

Despite knowing what was coming Illya had to keep up his pretence and not push things too fast.

"I am not interested in being a judo instructor," he told the other man.

"That isn't what I was suggesting."

Carr explained that he worked for an organisation which operated around the world and was endeavouring to make the planet a better place. It took all of Illya's resolve not to snort with derision. He knew only too well that Thrush as only interest in making the world a better place for a very select few.

"So what is on offer?"

"The organisation is always on the lookout for people to head up local. . . uh. . .offices."

"How do I apply for this position?"

Armed with an address, Illya returned to headquarters. Following further investigations U.N.C.L.E. ascertained the validity of the information and, within a week, the training centre had been neutralised and William Carr had been arrested. When he discovered that Nicholas Kingsley was actually Illya Kuryakin, the bane of Thrush, Carr was apoplectic. As for the Russian, he took great joy in interrogating the recruiter personally.


	32. Reverse!

Illya had already slammed the car to a halt, and changed gear, even before Napoleon's instant order. He could see what was coming at them as well as the American could. The pair had been heading to Thrush outpost to search for whatever they could find, but it seemed as though they'd been expected. It would later be discovered that they had managed to trip sensors on the rickety wooden bridge they had just crossed. The reason for the need to reverse, a large machine gun equipped truck, was barrelling towards them at high speed. Neither man had any wish to enter a battle which would have a very obvious, and permanent conclusion.

Stamping his foot back on the gas pedal, Illya took the car back over the bridge as quickly as he could. As he did this, Napoleon rummaged in the glove box for something which might be of use, and produced a grenade. He held it up and raised a questioning eyebrow to Illya. The other man simply shrugged. He liked to be prepared for any eventuality.

In truth, Napoleon was once again glad of his friend's love of all things that went boom. Sometimes they provided a quick and effective solution to a knotty problem. The moment they were off the bridge, and onto the solid surface of the ravine, Solo leaned out of the window and threw the grenade. It exploded with an orange glare and catastrophically damaged the ancient wooden structure.

When the vehicle was once again at a stop, Napoleon and Illya climbed out and watched as the remains of the bridge burned. Across the ravine, the truck came to a halt just in time. The blackened remnants of the bridge fell away a second later. Solo offered a jaunty wave to the frustrated Thurshies before he and Illya headed back to HQ. The assignment was a bust, and Waverly wouldn't be pleased, but at least they were alive.

"Talk about burning your bridges," Napoleon quipped.

The line earned him a sigh, and an eye roll, from his partner, which pleased Solo greatly. Illya didn't seem to realise it, but Napoleon had a little game going with himself. His bad puns were an intentional attempt to get a reaction from Illya. Each week he would start the count anew and attempt to beat the week before. Today was only Monday, and he'd already managed a rare double.


	33. A Friendship Betrayed

The sound of two gunshots, one a mere fraction of a second after the other, rang around the snowy hills.

Napoleon leapt to his feet from the cold stone he had been sitting on, threw off his backpack, and sprinted off in the direction Illya had gone fifteen minutes earlier. Solo had known this expedition had been a bad idea from the moment his partner had received the mysterious summons from an old friend.

A postcard had been delivered to Illya's apartment which had a location and a date written on it, along with the words _"I've messed up again. Come alone"_. According to the Russian, the phrase was a favourite of Trevor Lycett, who uttered it whenever he was caught doing something he shouldn't; be it serious or frivolous.

Having lived in a world of lies for most of his life, Illya had been reluctant to trust that the note was indeed from his friend. He had many enemies who could easily learn information about his university friends in London. He tried to keep his private life secret, but others weren't so cautious. Illya turned Napoleon, who offered to go with him. Kuryakin had agreed but insisted that he would travel the final part alone. The last words Illya had said before disappearing into the hills echoed around Napoleon's mind as loudly as the gunshots.

"I will try not to get myself killed."

It had been a reply to the instruction Napoleon had given before they'd parted company. Slipping and sliding on the icy rocks, Solo followed the only passable pathway. Within minutes he came upon a scene which froze his heart as cold as the landscape.

Two men lay motionless on the snow.

Napoleon ignored the dark haired figure and headed straight for his stricken friend. As he approached, Illya pulled himself up into a sitting position. Blood was running down the right side of his face where Lycett's bullet had grazed him.

"Is he dead?" Illya gasped, as Napoleon steadied him.

Solo looked across to the other man and could see, without going over, that he was very much dead. No matter the situation, Illya as an expert marksman, and his shot had done straight into Lycett's forehead.

"I'm afraid so, Tovarisch," Napoleon replied. "What happened?"

It was several seconds before Illya spoke again.

"He knew I would come if he sent that message," he replied. "I was always there to get him out of trouble when he 'messed up again'."

Illya paused, taking deep breaths to try and control his emotions. Napoleon waited patiently for him to continue.

"Trevor was a little like you," the Russian went on. "He had a love of the fine life and beautiful women. For him, university was one long party. The only reason he was never thrown out was because his father was a major benefactor. Although he came close to expulsion after using a small bomb to catch fish in the river. Luckily for me, he refused to say where from where he got the explosive."

A small, sad smile fleeted across his lips, which Solo echoed. Illya seemed to have a 'type' when it came to the friends he chose. However, the way Kuryakin was speaking about Lycett gave no clues as to why the two men had shot at each other.

"Trevor was Thrush."

The statement was said so simply, and with such little emotion, that Napoleon almost didn't take it in.

"Thrush?" he said eventually.

"He had no idea that I was U.N.C.L.E. until recently, and had offered to use our friendship to lure me into a trap. Killing me was a way of cementing his position."

Napoleon put a hand on Illya's shoulder, completely at a loss as to what to say. The betrayal of a colleague was difficult, but the betrayal of a friend was almost impossible to accept. He was going to have to keep a close eye on his partner for the next few days.

"I'll organise a clean-up," he stated.

"I want him to go home," Illya told him. "His mother should be allowed to say goodbye to him properly."

Napoleon nodded his agreement. As far as Mrs Lycett will know, her son's death will be put down to a hunting accident. Only he and Illya would ever know the truth.


	34. Disharmony

Although he was not a believer in any form of higher being, Illya Kuryakin couldn't deny that the sound of a good choir could move him. He was slightly less keen, however, on being a part of a choir. He was also certain that the information they'd received had been incorrect. To him, it had seemed a little too far-fetched. Napoleon too had had his doubts, but the contact was known to them, so they had to follow up on the lead he had given.

The contact had given them a code book which, at first, had seemed like complete gibberish. He had then explained that a Thrush courier was going to pass a message to another by singing out of key at certain points during a choir recital. Rather handily, he'd also managed to identify who the first courier was to be.

Napoleon decided that Illya should take a place in the choir, close to the courier, much to the Russian's annoyance. Solo's justification had been three-fold. Firstly, Illya had an excellent ear for music, secondly, he had a rather pleasant voice, and thirdly, he'd be able to remember the codes much better.

"I may be able to sing a little," the blond had pointed out, "But it is hardly choir-worthy."

Illya had studied the code book, and quickly realised that it was as difficult as first thought. It seemed he would be looking out for only four off-key notes. They would come in the order of town, building, date, and time. It was obviously an arrangement for a rendezvous.

It hadn't been too difficult to inveigle a way in to the choir; a lot of things could be achieved when enough money was offered. Illya, dressed in the choir's dark blue robes took his place next to the courier and listened out for the dis-harmonious notes.

Two hours later, the intelligence he'd discovered had been sent to HQ, and three days later a good many Thrushies found themselves in the custody of U.N.C.L.E. It had been an unusual method of delivery and, thanks to its failure, it was unlikely to be used again.


	35. Protecting Innocents

Sprawling out on the cushions of an outdoor divan, Illya Kuryakin leafed through the pages of his pre-mission research. He wasn't taking much of it in as his attention kept being drawn to the noise from the house next door.

Illya, and his partner Napoleon, were utilising one of U.N.C.L.E.'s safe houses as it was close to their target. The accounting department had been grumbling about the cost of hotels so Mr Waverly had decreed that, where practicable, safe houses could be used. Illya had made a mental note to have this particular house decommissioned, because of the sorority house next door.

When the agents had arrived a few hours earlier, things had been quiet. However, as the afternoon wore on, more and more young women began to congregate around the small pool. Despite most of them being under-age the drink was flowing fast, and Illya was in no doubt there were probably a fair few narcotics being passed around. Things got worse when the boys of an associate frat house arrived.

When Napoleon returned from buying the fixings for that evening's meal, Illya had retreated indoors.

"I thought you were enjoying the fresh air," Solo commented as he began unpacking.

"There is a party next door," his partner replied. "And some of the dancing was becoming a little too vulgar."

Out of curiosity, Napoleon took a look outside. He was a man who appreciated the shape of a young woman in swimwear, but the girls he could see were, in his opinion, barely adults. It was at times like this he was almost glad not to have any children. The parents of those kids would be mortified by their behaviour. There was one girl in tiny purple bikini, who he was certain wasn't even old enough to be at college, who was gyrating and grinding against a much older boy. Shaking his head, Napoleon went back inside and picked up the telephone.

"What are you doing?" Illya asked him.

"It is our sworn duty to safeguard innocents," Solo replied. "I'm calling the police to break up the party."

"It is not like you to want to spoil fun."

"I'm all for fun, Tovarisch," Napoleon told him. "But our youth need to be protected; even if its from themselves."

A short while later the police arrived, much to the annoyance of the party-goers. Napoleon used his U.N.C.L.E. credentials to make sure that the young were given stern warnings, but not arrested. After all, he hadn't been so innocent in his college days.


	36. Motel Operation

After retrieving a suitcase from his trunk, the man strode from his hired car to the motel reception, resisting the urge to look around. His natural instinct was to check he hadn't been followed but, if there was someone looking out for him, the action would have given him away. Even to an innocent bystander, glancing around would have made him appear furtive. It took only a matter of minutes for him to pick up the key for his pre-booked room. It had been specifically chosen because of the door which connected it to the next room along.

As he entered the room, Illya Kuryakin caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and momentarily forgot that he was wearing a disguise. He had to stop himself from reaching for his weapon and shooting the dark-haired, green eyed, and moustachioed 'intruder'. Dropping the suitcase, Illya made a sweep of the room in search of surveillance devices. Although none were found, he knew better than assume the room was clear. Any sounds he made had to what would be expected. Illya had to be very careful to look, and sound, like any other businessman who was bedding down for the night.

Glancing at his watch, he unlocked the connecting door, without opening it, before settling down to watch TV until the appointed time. Patience was a virtue he possessed, and the forty minutes he had to wait would hardly be difficult.

At the appointed time, 10:35 pm, Illya got up and stood in front of the connecting door. A few seconds later it was opened from the other side and he looked into the face of a man he knew. Illya had been given no information about who he would be passing the package to, only that he would know him. Even so, the only thing he recognised about the dishevelled man in front of him was the mole on his jaw and his pinky ring. With the blue contact lenses, greasy hair, and ill-fitting suit, very few people would know him to be Napoleon Solo.

They nodded to each other but neither man said a word. Illya reached into his jacket, pulled out a train ticket, and handed it over. Napoleon accepted it and carefully slotted it into his wallet. After giving Illya thumbs up, and a wink, he closed the door and Illya locked it.

Although he had concluded his part in the operation, the Russian was not yet able to leave the motel. The ticket he had given Napoleon had the security plans for a highly sensitive Thrush scientific conference hidden within it. The precautions being taken were a little more than necessary, but Waverly believed in 'better safe than sorry'. They couldn't allow Thrush to get wind of the fact their gathering was compromised.

In order to keep up the pretence, both Illya and Napoleon had to wait until morning before checking out. Kuryakin was to leave around 7:30am and take at least ten hours to get back to New York. He figured that Napoleon would have been given a different time so that they would not be seen together. With nothing else for him to do, Illya got comfortable on the bed and settled down to sleep.

Back at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, Mr Waverly ticked off the hand-over on his schedule. He had no way of knowing if it had even taken place, as strict radio silence was in operation, but he was certain that it will have done. The silence was only to be broken if anything went wrong and he had heard nothing thus far.

At 11:45am the following morning, Napoleon Solo arrived back without any problems and, two days later, several Thrush scientists were in the hands of U.N.C.L.E.


	37. Duck, Duck, Goose

There had been a time, long, long ago, when hunger was an ever-present companion for Illya Kuryakin. As for most other people in his country, food was in extremely short supply. In many cases any kind of sustenance was entirely absent. The young, the old, and the sick were often the first in a village to succumb to starvation; especially when hit by a harsh winter. For children like himself, who were orphaned and alone, it was even more of a struggle. As a result, he had become quite adept at finding just enough food to sustain him; though his belly was never truly filled.

It had been many years since Illya had been in an actual state of starvation, despite all the times he claimed hunger. He had a job which paid well enough, a warm and safe, apartment, and easy access to food form the plethora of stores, restaurants, and diners at his disposal. Even on assignment, it was rare that Illya had to resort to hunting and scavenging. Despite this, the skills he had learned as a child hadn't deserted him, and he was able to call on them whenever the need arose.

Which was just as well, given the situation.

Illya and Napoleon were holed up in a lakeside cabin in order to stakeout the cabin on the opposite bank. It was believed that several members of the Thrush council were meeting to plan a takeover bid. U.N.C.L.E. needed to know who would be making the power play. Before arriving at their own cabin, Napoleon and Illya had managed to bug the other one without being discovered. From that moment on, they were to remain hidden and were under instruction to maintain radio silence. It was a fairly straight forward assignment as far as the two agents were concerned, until they discovered a problem.

When the cabin had been booked by headquarters, they had been told by the letting agent that it would be fully stocked with enough food for a three days. This turned out to not be the case as all that could be found was a can of coffee. Illya was immediately dispatched by Napoleon to find them some food after claiming the blond was a far superior woodsman.

For almost an hour, Illya scavenged around the woodland gathering nuts, berries, and mushroom. He was about to head back when he heard the unmistakable sound of several geese. Heading towards to sound he soon found a small homestead which had several of the birds wandering around. Illya's mouth was practically watering at the thought of roast goose. With the things he'd already gathered he knew that Napoleon, and his culinary skills, would be able to create something wonderful.

However, there was a problem. Ordinarily, Illya would have knocked on the door of the homestead and offered to buy one of the geese but, as they were lying low, he wouldn't be able to. Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawled over to the fence where the fates smiled on him. There was a gap in the panels through which one of the birds had stuck its head. With lightning speed, Illya grabbed the creature and killed it with one swift twist. Ensuring that no-one could see him, he widened the gap and pulled the bird through.

The goose was just enough to keep the agents fed for the two days they were in the cabin. The assignment went without a hitch, the relevant intelligence was acquired, and Napoleon and Illya returned to HQ.

A few days later, Mr and Mrs Fielding received a letter thanking them for the goose, and enough money to cover the cost of half the flock.


	38. A Stable Friend

It had been an hour since Illya Kuryakin had purloined the plans for Thrush's latest insidious weapon, from a satrapy hidden deep in the countryside. He had been unable to get back to his vehicle, thanks to his escape route being blocked by guards, which had left him with no option but to escape on foot. Unfortunately, Illya's visit hadn't gone unnoticed and he soon found himself being hunted.

Despite being a physically fit man, evading his pursuers for an hour soon took its toll on Illya. He needed to find somewhere to lay low in order to get his breath back and until he could get away freely. After a further ten minutes, Illya found what he was looking for.

Nestled at one side of a large orchard was a small house and, a little way from that there was a small stable. Finding some extra strength from somewhere, Illya wasted no time in sprinting to the stable. Inside, he came face to face with a large black stallion.

The animal immediately became agitated at the sudden intrusion, and began to snort and stamp its foot. Having spent time with Cossacks in his youth, Illya had no fear of horses, and had learned few tricks to calm them. He held his arms wide and slowly moved towards the animal, at the same time whispering in low, calm tone. He wasn't saying anything in particular, as the tone mattered more than the words. The horse quickly settled and allowed Illya to approach.

"I am going to hide under your straw," he told it, as though it understand. "Please don't let my shadows find me."

Illya soon buried himself beneath the pile of straw in the corner of the stable. He only had to wait for five minutes before the two Thrushies who were on his tail burst in. The horse instantly seemed to lose its mind. It reared up violently and neighed loudly. The two goons pressed themselves against the wall in abject fear.

"There's no way he's hiding in here," the taller of the two told his companion. "That thing would've killed him if he'd tried."

"What about the house?" the other asked.

"I doubt it. The goody-goody U.N.C.L.E. agents wouldn't endanger the public."

"I guess we keep going then."

The Thrushies left the stable, to their obvious relief, and continued their search. Illya waited for a while before emerging from his cover. He patted the horse's neck in gratitude, and thanked it for its help.

"I shall not forget this, my friend."

With his communicator, Illya contacted HQ and explained his situation. He was told to head off the opposite direction to the thrushmen, and to keep the locator signal open on his communicator. A helicopter was being dispatched as he spoke. Ordinarily, Waverly wouldn't have sent a helicopter, but he was keen to have the plans in Illya's possession as soon as possible.

A few days later, Mr and Mrs Phillips, the owners of the orchard, received a package addressed to 'The Horse'. Inside, they found an exquisite, and quite expensive, grooming kit. They never found out who sent it.


	39. Frozen

The day was cold and crisp, with the clouds overhead threatening a heavy snowfall. For one of the two figures on the otherwise empty cliff top the chill of winter no longer held any discomfort. It never would again.

Looking down at the face of his late friend, Napoleon could almost convince himself that there was breath coming from Illya's mouth. The thought that his partner was actually gone was one which Napoleon wouldn't allow into his mind. To do so would be admitting the end of everything.

…..

Illya Kuryakin had checked in after gathering intelligence on small Thrush outfit. He'd passed on what he'd discovered and confirmed that he was free and clear. Twelve hours later he still hadn't returned to headquarters, and the signal from the homing device in his shoe was stationary. Several attempts were made to contact him, but none were successful. Napoleon had then asked Mr Waverly for permission to go looking for him. The Old Man had been reticent about letting him go but, since Solo didn't have any urgent business to see to, he allowed it.

It had taken Napoleon a couple of hours to the location indicated by the homing device, and his heart almost stopped at the sight which greeted him.

Illya was lying on his back in the snow. Luckily there hadn't been a fresh fall which could have him over. Napoleon ran to his supine friend and, dropping to his knees, he frantically checked for signs of life, but none were evident. Illya was dead.

With no thought for the cold, wet snow beneath him, Napoleon pulled Illya into his arms and held him tight. Nothing on Earth could have prevented his tears from flowing.

There had been other partners before Illya, but Napoleon always rejected them, claiming that he performed better on his own. Then the pale, skinny Soviet had arrived and, against all expectations, his way of working had perfectly complemented Napoleon's. They were as different as chalk and cheese, but each had strengths which made up for the other's weaknesses. Beyond their professional relationship, however, a rock solid friendship had also been formed; despite Mr Waverly's initial consternation.

As he continued stare at Illya's face, Napoleon suddenly realised that he hadn't imagined the breath coming from him. He was still alive.

"Illya?" Solo whispered, as he patted an ice-cold cheek. "Are you still with me?"

The Russian's eyelids fluttered, and his lips moved silently, but he remained unconscious. That didn't matter to Napoleon. The man was still living and he was determined to keep it that way. Pulling out his communicator, he ordered a helicopter rescue.

…...

It was two days before Illya returned to the world, and the familiar sounds and smells of the U.N.C.L.E. medical suite. The doctors had managed to bring is body temperature to normal, and had reset a broken tibia.

"Welcome back, Tovarisch," Napoleon greeted, putting aside the reports he was reading.

Waverly had only allowed the vigil on the understanding Napoleon would catch up on some of his CEA duties at the same time. This had resulted in half of his office being relocated to medical.

"How long?" Illya asked.

"Two days," Solo told him. "Apparently, I found you just in time. Another hour and it would have been too late. What happened?"

Illya narrowed his eyes in thought, trying to retrieve the memory from his fuzzy brain.

"I slipped on something under the snow, a rock I think, and I felt my leg break as I went down. When I reached for my communicator, I did not have it. I must have lost it somehow. I tried to stand but the pain was too much for me."

"The doc says the temperature slowed your body down, keeping you alive for longer. The heat from my body then helped to prevent things from slowing down too much. I just thank God I got to you in time."

Illya frowned at the strange downcast tone he could hear in Napoleon's voice.

"Is there something you are not telling me?" he asked.

"I almost gave up on you," Solo confessed. "You looked and felt dead and, although I refused to accept it, I knew you had gone."

"Thankfully, you were wrong," Illya replied, with a smile. "And I'm also thankful that you weren't late for once."

That was enough to Napoleon snap from his despondency. A wide grin appeared on his face.

"I'm never late when it matters," he said, with faux consternation.

The friendly bickering was still going when a nurse entered the room a few minutes. She smiled at the scene, knowing that the patient was well on the way to a full recovery.


	40. A Man of His Word

Napoleon was still in the middle of his morning flirt, with Alice on reception, when Illya arrived at headquarters. The Russian held out a hand for his badge, which Alice passed to him with barely a glance, and audibly sighed.

"We have a meeting with Waverly," Illya reminded Solo, a little tersely.

Napoleon blew a kiss to Alice.

"Until tonight."

"It's 8:30 in the morning," Illya stated, as the pair headed towards their boss's office "Do you ever turn it off?"

"You can't turn off what comes naturally," Napoleon replied, holding his arms out in a 'what can you do?' gesture. "It's just the same as you and your tetchiness."

Kuryakin narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

A they waited for the elevator they were approached by Jack Davies of Section 3. He looked as if there was something quite concerning on his mind.

"What's up, Jack?" Napoleon asked? "Have you been given the Christmas shift?"

"Have you seen Mr Waverly yet?"

"No," Illya told him. "We are on the way now. Is there a problem?"

"He's wearing a sweater," Davies announced, as though it would explain everything.

"I'll admit that it's unusual, but I don't think it's a cause for too much concern," Napoleon answered, with a shrug.

"It's a Christmas sweater."

Napoleon and Illya looked to each other with expressions only they could read. It wasn't entirely unknown for Alexander Waverly to wear something other than a suit, but a garment in the vein of a Christmas sweater was entirely out of character. When someone in U.N.C.L.E suddenly exhibited behaviours which are out of the norm, it tended to raise suspicions.

Reaching the office, they were stopped from going straight in by Lisa Rogers. She seemed to be on the verge of tears.

"Are you okay?" Solo enquired, with concern.

"I'm fine. Just don't mention the sweater," she warned. "I made that mistake and he practically chewed my head off."

It wasn't unknown for Mr Waverly to give his agents a piece of his mind, but it was unusual for Miss Rogers to be on the receiving end.

"Has his security detail been away from him at any time since he went home last night?" Napoleon asked her.

"I shouldn't think so," Lisa replied. "Do you think he's been compromised in some way?"

"Something just doesn't feel right," Napoleon told her. "It wouldn't be the first time we've been infiltrated by a double."

Illya raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"The point of a double is to infiltrate without anyone noticing," he pointed. "A brightly coloured Christmas sweater would serve the opposite purpose."

Napoleon thanked Lisa for the warning and, taking a deep breath, he and Illya entered the office.

The sweater was far worse than either of them could ever have imagined. It was adorned with Christmas trees, baubles, and candy canes, and was a far cry from Mr Waverly's usual, more sober attire. Thanks to many years of training and experience, Solo and Kuryakin were able to hold back any kind of reaction. They simply greeted the boss, and sat down in their customary chairs.

Waverly harrumphed in reply and pushed a file, pertaining to their next assignment, over to each man. They both read in silence but neither could resist the occasional glance at the horrendous sweater.

"It is for my eight-year- old grandson," the Old Man eventually snapped.

"What is, Sir?" Napoleon asked, attempting to feign innocence.

"You know full well what, Mr Solo," Waverly replied. "They boy has been falling behind at school and I made a deal with him. I told him that if he could bring his English grade up to a B, I would grant any wish it was in my power to do so. As it turned out, this turned out to be an excellent incentive and he attained an A.

I had hoped he would want me to obtain the must have toy, or a trip to Disneyland. Unfortunately, he had heard me telling my wife that I would not wear a Christmas sweater under any circumstances, and he decided it would be amusing to have me wear one to the office. Mrs Waverly tried to explain to him that it would be unprofessional of me. However, I had made a promise to the boy, and I am a man of my word."

Napoleon found himself smiling with admiration at the Old Man. Nobody could deny the man's love for his family, and his willingness to do what was necessary to help them excel. That went for his U.N.C.L.E. family also.


	41. When Hope is Lost

There had once been a time, which felt like an entire lifetime ago, when hope had been an unaffordable luxury. There had been little profit in hoping for those things, both tangible and intangible, which would never be possessed. Then, Illya Kuryakin had met an annoying, outgoing, and irrepressible capitalist called Napoleon Solo. The American, through his actions, and 'in-the-nick-of-time' solutions, had sparked something Illya had thought was long forgotten. Hope had been reborn in his frozen heart, and working for U.N.C.L.E. had allowed it to flourish.

Now, however, all hope was gone.

A day had passed since Illya had escaped from his latest Thrush captor, following two days of intense 'questioning'. He'd been snatched from the street, divested of all his weapons and gadgets, and taken on a four hour car journey. Illya was in a fairly bad physical state when he'd finally gained his liberty, and finding himself in a snow-covered landscape had done nothing to give him any confidence about his survival.

After hours of trudging through the freezing landscape, pain and exhaustion had caused Illya to stumble and fall. His already agonised frame screamed at him has he felt his knee twist from under him. The unconsciousness he had been fighting came quickly.

Upon waking, it had taken Illya a few minutes to remember the past few days. He suddenly realised, assuming he had worked it out correctly, that it was Christmas Day. Another thing which hadn't been a part of Illya until he'd met Solo. The Russian had been reluctant to partake of the festival, for several reasons, but after a while it had become a time of joy for him. He didn't celebrate the religious side of the day, but he had come to appreciate the love, friendship, and togetherness it engendered. It made him unexpectedly sad to think he would die on Christmas Day.

The snow had begun to fall again. Illya could feel a cold penetrating his bones, and he recognised it as more than just the weather conditions. He had been on the edge of death many times, but he had always had hope. Deep inside, he had always known there would be a last minute rescue, followed by a hated spell in medical. This time though, no-one knew where he was, so he knew that rescue would not be coming.

Illya wasn't ready to die yet but, as a pragmatic man, he knew there was no point in fighting it. It would be easier if he just allowed the end to come. As his eyes began to close, a bright light appeared in front of him and brought him back to full wakefulness. The light coalesced into the form of a woman.

"Mama?" Illya whispered.

The figure held out her hands and beckoned for Illya to sit up. Assuming his mother had come to take him to a place he'd never believed in, he struggled into a sitting position and held out his hand to take hers. The figure shook her head and showed Illya that she wanted him to hold his hands palm up. She did the same and watched in fascination as several snowflakes joined together in her hands and formed a multi-limbed living creature.

"Eta nadezhda _(This is hope)_ " she told him.

The snow creature melted into his hands and Illya had the overwhelming feeling that all would be well. As the light, and the woman, faded, Illya succumbed to sleep, in the certain knowledge he would awaken in medical.

All was white when Illya opened his eyes, but it felt very different from lying in the snow.

"How did you find me?" he asked Napoleon, who was dozing by his bedside.

"I was given your location," Solo replied, after composing himself. "Just don't ask me from whom."

"Was it a woman who looked like me?"

"Yes," Napoleon answered, with evident confusion. "And I am almost unwilling to admit that she came to me in a dream."

"My Mama came to me also, and gave me back the hope I had given up."

The two men stare at each other, each trying to work out how to explain it to Mr Waverly.

"I'll say I heard about your location on the Thrush grapevine," Napoleon suggested. "I don't really know what happened, but it led me to you and brought you home."

Home, thought Illya to himself, this truly is my home.

"I'll see how quickly I can spring you out of here," Solo said, as he stood.

"Please, do not," Illya told him. "For once, I am glad to be here."

Napoleon gave him a wry smile. He had no doubt that his partner meant those words, but he knew full well that the sentiment wouldn't last twenty-four hours.


	42. Snow Battle

The top U.N.C.L.E. team of Solo and Kuryakin dashed across the white, snow-covered ground, ducking and weaving in an effort to dodge the projectiles of their pursuers. Their only source of shelter was cut off, and they soon found themselves with nowhere else to run.. The pair turned to face their nemeses, who were preparing another barrage. As a last ditch attempt to avoid being hit, Illya stepped behind Napoleon. His manoeuvre paid off as his partner bore the brunt of the snowball attack, and he himself remained unscathed.

Napoleon's sister, Seraphina, had invited the two men for a New Year's Day lunch, in order to have some adult company while her husband was away on business. After eating, the two men had been persuaded by her son and daughter, to go out into the garden to build a snowman. Inevitably, this had led to the snow being thrown, with nine-year-old Dashiell, and seven-year-old Amelia, deciding to join forces against the grown-ups.

With a measured slowness, Solo bent down and carefully formed a larger than necessary snowball. The children ran and hid behind the small summer house, assuming that Uncle Leon would be aiming for one of them. They needed have worried however. As he rose, Napoleon began to turn towards his partner. Illya, being a highly trained agent, had anticipated Napoleon's reaction and was already darting towards the summer house. He reached shelter a spilt second before the snowball exploded against the wooden walls.

"May I join your team?" he whispered to the children, who both nodded eagerly.

Dashiell and Amelia both adored their Uncle Leon's friend. The blond man with the funny voice always joined in their games and made them extra fun. It always gladdened Napoleon to see Illya let go of his cares; even though it was only for a few short hours.

"I have an idea," Illya continued. "If we get just it right, at least two of us will be able to get him at the same time."

"Hide all you want" Napoleon called out. "I can wait."

About thirty seconds later, little Amelia stepped out from behind the summerhouse, with a snowball in hand, and walked towards him. Her bottom lip was quivering and she seemed on the verge of tears.

"Illya says I should throw this at you, but I don't want to," she said, her voice trembling.

She looked at Napoleon with her big brown eyes, and his heart utterly melted. He squatted down to talk to her at her eye level.

"Don't worry, Sweetheart," he told her. "It's just a game. You don't have to listen to what he says."

"No, I don't have to," she replied, a smile suddenly appearing on her face.

As soon as she said the pre-arranged code-phrase, Illya and Dashiell leapt out and attacked. They had two snowballs each and they all hit their mark. The shock of it cased Napoleon to fall from his haunches, onto his backside. While he was still grasping what had happened, he was hit in the chest by Amelia's snowball. He laughed at how easily his young niece had fooled him. Just like all other members of the Solo family, Amelia knew all too well how to manipulate others; despite her tender years.

From the kitchen door, Seraphina Maxwell-Solo shook her head in amusement. Her poor brother didn't stand a chance against his nephew and niece, especially when they had Illya backing them up. Before Napoleon could retaliate, she called the children in to take a bath, telling the adults there was cocoa on the stove.

"So much for loyalty," Solo muttered, as he handed Illya a mug of cocoa. "Here was me thinking you'd take a bullet for me."

"A bullet, yes," Illya confirmed, with absolute seriousness. "But I refuse to catch a cold for you."

"And what about your defection?"

Napoleon winced slightly, realising which word he had just used. Illya wasn't a defector, but there were many people who assumed he was. The American need have worried though, as Illya understood that Napoleon's choice of words was not ill-intentioned.

"The children were at a disadvantage. I merely redressed the balance," he replied. "After all, is it not my sworn duty to aid those who need it?"

"You win this time, Kuryakin," Solo told him, with a mock snarl. "But, I will have my retribution."


	43. An Invisible man

Not many people took any notice of the homeless man, who had huddled into the archway of the sandstone folly; which was situated in a small park in the north of New York City. A few had thrown some pocket change in the hat he'd placed in front of him, but other than that, he was more or less and invisible man. The man had cold had managed to bear the cold of the winter during the day, but now night had arrived, and had brought snow with it. The park looked almost pretty as the snow sparkled under the streetlights, which lined a winding pathway, but Illya wasn't there for the view.

Despite being well wrapped up against the weather, Illya Kuryakin was not enjoying the cold. He had grown up in a cold climate but, these days, he was very much a creature of comfort. Illya was aware he had gotten soft, but had also decided that there was nothing wrong with that. In fact, he had long since reconciled himself to the fact he worked hard for the comfort he had. This didn't mean he couldn't endure the harsh weather when necessary.

Illya had been in position, covered in stained clothes, dirty blankets, and newspapers for around sixteen hours. The disguise department had even covered him with the scent of a man who hadn't washed in a long time, and who regularly threw up on himself. His grey wig and beard were dirty and matted, and he was wearing brown contact lenses. He had also been fitted with an external catheter, so that he wouldn't have to leave his position and risk being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It wasn't the nicest of disguises, but it did the job required of it.

Another hour passed, and Illya began to wonder if the handover he was awaiting was going to happen at all. Finally, he saw two men approaching one another. One was a German agent called Dedrick Köhler, the other was Napoleon Solo. The pair greeted each other in the manner of old friends, had a conversation about unimportant matters. They then shook hands and parted company; with Dedrick walking away from Illya, and Napoleon coming towards him.

Solo barely looked at his partner, let alone acknowledged him. Instead, he stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a few coins. He threw them into Illya's hat and continued on his way. A short while later, another man followed closely behind Napoleon. Knowing that it had been expected, Illya didn't react. Solo would be able to deal with his tail easily enough.

An hour after this, Illya gathered up the coins in his hat and shoved them into his pocket. He was careful to place the one containing the microdot, which Napoleon has retrieved from Dedrick, into a different pocket. With a great deal of huffing and puffing, Illya made a big play of struggling to his feet before shuffling off along a different path to his colleagues. The microdot was taken to HQ with Thrush having no idea that it had even changed direction.


	44. Vigil

"You're not being very fair to me, Tovarisch. It's alright for you to just lie there, having a nice long sleep. I'm missing a date! You remember Kitty in communications? She's the one with the flame-orange hair and that wonderfully hypnotic wiggle. Before our assignment I promised to take her out for dinner as soon as we got back. Still, she knows our job sometimes means plans have to be put on hold.

Seriously though, Illya, you're really starting to worry me now. It's been over twenty-four hours. You've fought off much worse than this in the past. You've survived things no mortal man should be able to. I don't know what was in that syringe you got stuck with, but I refuse to believe that this is the end. The docs still haven't figured it out, and the best they can do is treat whatever symptoms it produces.

You can't go dying on me. You know I haven't got the patience to break in another partner. For all you might drive me nuts, at least your methods mesh with mine. Besides, although I have many acquaintances, I only have one true friend. You're the only person I can trust absolutely, so you can't go taking that away.

I've lost count of the number of times I've sat here; waiting for you to return to the world. You've been here too many times also so you know how it feels. You know, a lot of people in this organisation, who aren't agents, don't understand this bond. They can't grasp that to truly trust someone, you need to get close with them.

Waverly has given me leave to sit with you until tomorrow afternoon. He knows how important it is to an agent. Take your time partner, and come back to us stronger. I'll be here all night."


	45. Surprise!

The small private theatre, belonging to Freddy Swann, had only a few seats; all of which were occupied. The tiny stage, which was hidden from view by the crimson velvet curtain, held a surprise for the assembled guests. It was one which Swann was certain would raise him to bigger and better things.

Reaching the upper echelons of Thrush was a dream he had long held and, although he had come up from grunt level already, it wasn't enough. Swann wanted money and glory, but above all, he wanted power. The prize he had captured for his Thrush masters all but guaranteed him his elevation.

It hadn't been easy, but after many weeks of planning, Freddy Swann finally had Illya Kuryakin in his clutches. The U.N.C.L.E. agent had eventually been snatched as he exited a grocery store. That had been a couple of days ago and, while waiting for his honoured guests to travel to his remote estate, Swann had indulged in a little light interrogation. Of course, he hadn't gleaned anything from the man, but it weakened him enough to take the fight out of him.

Not that Swann had taken any chances. Throughout his confinement, Kuryakin had been exceptionally well secured. Even now, behind the curtain, he was strapped tightly to a chair and had two guards on him. The little runt wouldn't be going anywhere until it was time for him to go to Central.

Wanting to make a big deal of his surprise, Freddy had laid on an intimate cocktail party. Although the drink had flowed quite well, Angelo Cox soon tired of the grovelling wannabe and demanded to know why he had been dragged to the middle-of-nowhere. Swann had taken Cox, and his entourage, to the little theatre. As they took their seats he positioned himself to one side of the stage. He took the rope for the curtains in his and turned to address his audience.

"For many years, Illya Kuryakin has been a bane to Thrush. He and his partner have thwarted many plans, and eliminated too many good operatives. Well, from now on, Napoleon Solo will have to live up to his name."

With a theatrical flourish, Swann pulled the rope, and the curtains swept aside to reveal . . .

. . . an empty chair.

The two guards were slumped, unconscious, at either side, but Kuryakin was conspicuous by his absence.

The triumphant grin slid from Swann's face, along with any trace of blood. It took every ounce of strength to turn to his superior.

"I'm so sorry Sir, I don't . . ."

Cox held up a hand to cut him off.

"Get yourself ready to travel," he ordered. "Central are going to be interested in your explanation."


	46. Always Hungry Never Starving

Placing the paper bag full of the groceries he'd just bought onto the passenger seat of his car, Illya reached in and pulled out packet of plums. He rubbed one of the juicy, purple fruits on his jacket before taking a bite. There was no important business demanding his attention, so he took his time; savouring every piece.

He'd only had lunch an hour previously and, although he wasn't hungry, he couldn't resist snacking on the plums. Illya was well aware that he ate far too much, but since he kept himself fit, and led an extremely active life, it was unlikely to impact his health, yet. One day, hopefully, he would reach an age when he wouldn't be able to maintain his current level of fitness, but until then he intended to enjoy his food.

Of course, there was a dark side to why he ate all the time. In his younger years, days could go by without any real food. It was deemed a good day if he could get his hands on even the smallest amount of meat. Back then, you ate any food the moment you got it. It was dangerous to hang on to it as there were many others who were just as hungry as you. In situations where starvation was a very real threat, civility was often forgotten. Besides, it was often the case that your last meal had been a couple of days previously.

These days, Illya had access to food pretty much whenever he wanted it. His job also afforded him the luxury of travelling the world, and trying the various national cuisines available to him. This just added to his gluttonous tendencies, as he wanted to try absolutely everything.

Napoleon, with his taste for the finer things in life, often accused Illya of having no appreciation for food. He was quite wrong in this. Illya appreciated food in every sense of the word; not only as fuel, but as an adventure.

Illya Kuryakin knew he was a glutton, but he also understood why.


	47. Unfair Roles

At the conclusion of their latest assignment, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin climbed into their car and set off for home. The Russian was still wearing the black uniform of a porter, which he'd been in for most of the assignment.

The mission itself had been a stakeout, with a twist. A high class hotel had been bought by a known Thrush associate, and it was assumed by U.N.C.L.E. that it would become a legitimate front for the hierarchy's nefarious dealings. Solo and Kuryakin were dispatched to gather intelligence on the building and its staff. Technically speaking, they ranked above such a task, but Waverly had decided that his top team could probably infiltrate more effectively.

A was usually the case, Illya had been landed with a servile role, while Napoleon masqueraded as a wealthy business man. For three days, Solo had lived the life Riley. He'd spent the majority of his time enjoying the hotel's facilities and compiling a detailed layout of the public areas. Kuryakin had the job of exploring the staff only areas. His was the more difficult task as he also had to work several shifts in his guise as a porter. He'd also been given the job of breaking into the personnel office to photograph the employee files.

"Our job can be quite enjoyable at times," Napoleon commented as he pulled away from the hotel. "Although, accounting isn't going to be too happy about my expenses claim."

Illya glared at his partner with abject consternation.

"You may have had fun, but some of us were actually working."

"I was working too," Solo countered.

"I mean, I was also doing hotel work," Illya snapped. "I have been carrying the luggage of over-privileged and lazy people for three days, while you have been pampering yourself. Next time, you can be the porter, or the waiter, or whatever lowly and subservient role is required."

Napoleon didn't answer. He had to admit that Illya maybe had a point in that their assigned roles often gave the American the better side of the deal.

"I wouldn't have minded too much," Illya continued. "But you didn't even tip me."


	48. Conversational Russian

Illya was in a deep dream sleep when his alarm rang out to herald the start of the day. Letting out an exasperated sigh, he sat up and rubbed his face in a vain attempt relieve his tiredness. He and Napoleon had return from a four week assignment the previous day and, although they would usually be given downtime, this time they would have to wait another day. Influenza had brought several other agents down, meaning the Command had been under-staffed. They were expecting some of them back the next day.

Pulling himself to his feet, Illya sighed again and set about his morning routine. His tiredness was such that, during his shower, he dropped the soap twice. Then, as he dressed, he painfully stubbed his toe against the wardrobe. Things reached a head while he prepared his coffee. He somehow managed to spill the whole can, and as he tried to grab it, he knocked his mug from the counter.

"It is going to be one of those days," he said out loud to himself.

Then he froze, realising what he had just said. It wasn't the words themselves which were the problem, but the language. Illya was hit by the sudden awareness that he had stopped using his mother tongue. He couldn't even remember the last time his thoughts had been in Russian, and not English.

Napoleon was one of the few people who could read Illya's moods despite there being no obvious outward signs. However, he didn't get a chance to ask him the problem until they met up for lunch.

"What's up, Tovarisch?" he asked, as they both sat down. "Something seems to be eating you up."

Illya hesitated before finally answering. He explained about his morning and his realisation.

"I seem to only speak my own language in an official capacity," he told his partner.

"Is it making you homesick?"

"I shall always miss homeland, but it is no longer my home," Illya replied. "I just miss speaking my own language to. . . What is that term you American's use? I miss. . .shooting the wind."

"Shooting the breeze," Napoleon corrected. "I wish I could help you. I have a basic understanding of Russian, but I couldn't have an informal conversation. What about Mike, or Jennifer, in translation. Don't they speak Russian?"

"Yes, but it wouldn't be what I desire."

Napoleon understood what Illya meant. He got on very well with most people in HQ, but he needed someone with whom he was close.

"What are you doing with your week off," Solo asked, changing the subject.

"Sleeping," Illya replied without a beat. "I am bone tired. What about you?"

"Tomorrow, I'm resting," Napoleon told him. "Then on Monday I'm taking Phillipa to dinner, Tuesday Meghan and I are going to the zoo, on Wednesday. . ."

"Stop, Napoleon," Illya said as he held a hand up, a wry smile appearing on his face. "I am far too tired to listen to your future exploits."

When Illya returned to headquarters, following a restful and refreshing week off, he found Napoleon had arrived before him. Entering the office, he was greeted by the sight of his partner guiltily slamming is desk drawer closed.

"What are you hiding?" he asked.

"Hello to you too, Illya. Did you enjoy your leave?"

"Yes, thank you," Kuryakin replied. "I trust you did also. What are you hiding?"

Napoleon jutted out his chin in defiance. He'd faced Thrush torturers, so Illya Kuryakin didn't frighten him; much. For a full three minutes the two men stared at each other. Finally, despite him being his closest friend, Illya's icy glare got the better of him.

"Fine," Napoleon conceded.

He opened the drawer and pulled out the book he had been studying before Illya had entered. The Russian suddenly found himself sporting a broad grin upon reading the title, 'Conversational Russian for Beginners'.

"Spasiba, moy droog _(thank you, my friend)_ ," he said, with affection.


	49. White Room

Their assignment was done and dusted, and accounting had authorised a hotel for the night. After booking in, and discovering that they had a room each for once, Napoleon and Illya headed for the elevator.

"It's only 4:30," Solo stated, glancing at his watch. "Plenty of time to shower and have a nap. Meet you in the lobby at 7:30 for dinner?"

Illya nodded his agreement. No doubt Napoleon would go in search for female company later on, and that was fine by him. They rarely got the luxury of separate rooms and he was looking forward to a full night's sleep without having to wait for Napoleon to finish any dalliance.

Just over three hours later, the agents were perusing the menu of the hotel's restaurant, awaiting their meals.

"Do you think someone in accounting has made a mistake?" Napoleon asked. "The rooms here are exceptional. It can't be cheap."

"If my room is anything to go by, I would say they were trying to dissuade us from asking for quality accommodation in the future."

"What do you mean?"

"Everything is white," Illya explained. "It was like being inside a snow drift."

"I think it looks elegant," Solo told his partner. "Very clean and fresh. I doubt it will prevent you from sleeping, as I have seen you napping in an actual snowdrift."

Illya snorted a laugh. He couldn't deny the truth of it; he possessed the ability to sleep almost anywhere.

Following a more than accepted meal, during which Illya had two desserts, Napoleon bade his friend farewell and went in search of a nightclub. The Russian pondered whether he should also go and seek out some entertainment, but decided that sleep was his first priority.

The following morning, Napoleon said goodbye to the beautiful redhead who had agreed to share his bed, and went to rouse Illya. After knocking on the door a couple of times, but receiving no answer, Solo returned to his own room. He called down to reception and asked them to call the telephone in Illya's room. Again, there was no response. Trying not to let panic take a hold, Napoleon dug out his communicator and tried to contact the man that way. A few seconds later, a weary sounding Illya answered.

"Where on Earth are you?" Solo demanded.

"I am in the car," Kuryakin replied. "I could not sleep in that room."

"Why ever not?"

"All the white," Illya explained. "It was too much like being in Medical.


	50. Spacewalk

After rapping out his coded knock, Napoleon let himself into his partner's apartment, where he found the man listening to the radio. Illya held up a hand in a silent request for Solo to stay quiet. The voice from the radio was describing the re-entry, to Earth's atmosphere, of the capsule from the Soviet Voskhod 2 spacecraft. It was being reported that friction had caused the capsule to be enveloped in orange flames, but was now floating down safely to a landing near Perm.

Napoleon smiled at Illya's rapt attention. The previous day, U.N.C.L.E.'s resident Soviet, had been beyond excited when cosmonaut, Alexey Arkhipovich Leonov, had been the first human in history to perform an extra vehicular activity. Wearing a specially modified spacesuit, Leonov had gone outside of the capsule for a full twelve minutes.

Illya was fascinated by space science and, although it didn't bother him too much who made each first step, he couldn't hide his delight that his countrymen were currently winning the space race.

"I wonder who will be the first to reach the moon," he commented, as he switched off the radio.

"I, of course, would like it to be America," Napoleon replied. "However, does it really matter? Each new step beyond Earth is a win for all of humankind."

"You are quite right, my friend," said Illya, with a smile. If the people of this planet are going to explore the Solar System, then co-operation will get us there faster."

Both men sighed at the dream. It was a nice thought, but neither could see it coming true. Going into the kitchen, Illya retrieved his bottle of vodka from the freezer. He poured two shots and handed one to Napoleon.

"The Cosmos," he toasted, holding up his glass.

"Space," replied Solo, doing the same.

They each downed the clear fluid. It wasn't Napoleon's drink of choice, but it was right for the occasion.

"Are you ready?" Napoleon asked. "We are supposed to be going to the airport."

"I am ready," Illya told him. "If I cannot go to space, then Berlin will have to do."


	51. Trust

The cabin was small and roughly built, but that didn't matter to Illya Kuryakin. There was storm brewing and he knew they needed to shelter from it. The structure seemed to be a hunters' cabin, which could be used by anyone who needed it. Illya was grateful to discover that it was currently unoccupied. Over his shoulder, an unconscious Napoleon Solo groaned.

Illya was silently blaming his partner for their current predicament. Their assignment to infiltrate a known Thrush supplier and photograph their client lists, had gone exceptionally well. However, on their journey back, Napoleon had uttered the immortal words, 'It's nice to get an easy one from a change". Illya had rolled his eyes at that, and warned the American of not speaking to soon. Although he tried to tell himself he didn't believe in such things, Illya sometimes thought their assignments were cursed. They often went wrong for the smallest of reasons.

Sure enough, about two minutes after Napoleon's declaration, the car shuddered to a stop. Before either man could investigate, thick smoke had begun to billow from beneath the hood. The pair looked at each other and then, without saying a word, had dived out of the vehicle; just as the engine burst into flames. A call to HQ for someone to pick them up had yielded nothing but directions to a train station. They were told that if they cut through the woodland, it would only take three hours. Luckily, the agents were dressed for burglary, so Napoleon didn't have to worry about his expensive wardrobe.

Solo and Kuryakin were about halfway through their trek when the curse struck again. Napoleon lost his footing while climbing over the root of a tree and, as he'd fallen, had cracked his head against the trunk. Illya tried to rouse him for a couple of minutes but found that Napoleon was deeply unconscious. A crack of thunder overhead caused him to look up and he noticed the heavy clouds. A large drop of rain hit him in forehead. As he'd looked around for any kind of shelter he had made out the shape of the cabin through the trees.

Opening the door, Illya was pleasantly surprised to find a cot and an armchair inside. He laid Napoleon down and sat himself in the chair to wait out the rain. Although Napoleon had knocked himself out good and proper, Illya felt sure there would be no lasting damage. He thought about calling for assistance, but it could be some time before it got to them. Besides, Napoleon was starting to show signs of coming round.

Illya watched as his partner stirred. Had someone told him, back in his youth, that he would one day have a close friend who was an American, he would have laughed them out of the building. Depending on what sage of his life he was at, he may have even reported that someone for sedition. America was an enemy, and the thought of associating with one of her citizens, let alone befriending one, was a thought not to be borne.

Throughout his life, Illya had known many people whom he regarded as a friend. However, there were very few of those he would trust implicitly. That kind of trust was dangerous where he came from. Yet, against his every instinct, and everything he'd ever been told, Illya found himself putting his entire trust in one person. What was more, that person was an American.

Napoleon groaned loudly and opened his eyes. A hand immediately went to the pain on one side of his head.

"Did you get the number of that truck?" he asked, as he sat up and took in his surroundings. "Where are we?"

Illya explained what happened and that they were sheltering from the rain, after he had physically carried him to the cabin.

"Oh. In that case, thank you, Tovarisch."

"You are welcome, my friend," Illya replied. "Maybe one day I will be able to trust you . . . not to trip over your feet."


	52. Taken

Neither man fully understood how they had ended up in the small cage, nor did they know who had put them there. The barred iron structure was a cube which measured only six feet along each edge, and had a large lock keeping the small doorway closed. It stood in the centre of an otherwise empty room. Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin and both woken in the cage ten minutes previously and, once they'd discovered their communicators were gone, had immediately begun their escape attempt. The contents of their pockets had formed a small pile between the two.

"So you have nothing." Napoleon stated, staring at the pile. "Nothing at all?"

"I was on leave, and in the grocery store, when I was taken," Illya replied. "Do you think I routinely carry my equipment with me when I am not working?"

"It isn't entirely unknown."

Illya fixed his partner with an icy glare, although it didn't have the desired effect. Napoleon knew his partner too well to be intimidated by him. He merely raised an eyebrow in response.

"Yes. . . well," Illya mumbled, backing down. "Mr Waverly had some extremely expressive words on that subject when my trousers caused the laundromat to burn down. Accounting weren't too happy about the compensation bill either. Why don't you have anything with you?"

Napoleon shrugged apologetically.

"I was on a date with a girl who doesn't know what I do," he explained.

"So?"

"So, she is tactile," he smiled at earlier memories of just how tactile she could get. "I couldn't risk her finding anything. I hope she forgives me for disappearing."

Illya sighed, a little overdramatically, and asked why he didn't have least have his explosive shoestrings. Napoleon waggled a foot to show he was wearing loafers.

"A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!" he suddenly exclaimed.

"I do not see how a horse would help the situation," Illya stated, in a deadpan tone. "Things are cramped enough in here as it is."

"I was being metaphorical, Illya," Solo began to retort. "I was using it to mean I would give anything to have something. . ."

He stopped talking when he saw the twinkle in the Russian's eye. Anyone else wouldn't have seen it beyond the stony expression, but Napoleon could, and he knew Illya was teasing him.

"I guess we're just going to have to wait it out."

Almost as soon as the words came out of Napoleon's mouth, the door to the room opened. The agents glanced to each other with puzzlement when two officers of the NYPD entered.

"What are you doing in there?" asked Officer Myers, looking around for a way to release the two men.

"Sunbathing," Illya answered sarcastically.

"Take no notice of him," Napoleon said quickly. "He doesn't take well to being caged up."

Producing his U.N.C.L.E. ID, Napoleon introduced himself, and his partner, and asked the officers what had brought them there.

"We had several reports of two bodies being carried into this building," Officer Best. "Don't worry, we'll soon have you out of there."

Three hours later, Solo and Kuryakin were sitting in the office of Alexander Waverly, giving their verbal report of events.

"Along with officers Myers and Best, we waited for our captor to return," Napoleon told his boss.

"We did not have to wait long," Illya interjected.

"Do you know who he is?" asked Waverly.

"No."

After being taken into custody by his U.N.C.L.E. captives, the man had bitten down on a cyanide capsule he'd had hidden in his mouth.

"We have no way of discovering who he was, or if he was working for someone else," Napoleon continued. "Basically, we are left with more questions than answers."

"That isn't unusual," Waverly answered, with a harrumph. "Very well, gentlemen. Get your reports written before you leave."

Just before they left, Mr Waverly called them back.

"I know this kind of thing is an occupational hazard, but please watch your backs. I wouldn't want to lose my best agents unnecessarily."

As they headed for their office, neither man spoke. They both knew they were constant targets, but it was disconcerting that they had been taken so easily.


	53. Past Echoes

Illya wrapped his arms around himself, in an attempt to stave off the cold wind, as he staked out the dingy back street. He gave a quiet snort as he realised what he was doing. Illya had come from a place which, in winter, could freeze the breath as it left your body. The temperature of the wind, which was currently blowing around him, would barely raise a comment amongst his countrymen. He couldn't deny that he was getting soft.

Illya had been hiding in a shadowy corner for almost an hour, waiting for a handoff between two Thrush couriers. His assignment was to waylay the pick-up courier and appropriate whatever it was he had been given. A car had arrived fifteen minutes previously, and the driver seemed to be waiting. Illya hoped that this wasn't the pick-up man, as it wouldn't be easy to intercept a car when he himself was on foot. He scanned the street for any other signs of life.

The dirty, debris strewn place had definitely seen better days. There was evidence of long gone stores and businesses, which may once have catered to New York's elite, but were now boarded up and dilapidated. The whole area had become nothing more than a run-down slum, occupied by some of the poor and underprivileged of the city. There was something about the place which transported Illya's mind to his childhood. Not the village idyll of his family home, but afterwards, when his family were gone and he had been forced into the city.

Movement from the end of the street dragged Illya's thoughts back to present, and he watched as a figure dressed in black wended his way towards the car. Anyone who wasn't looking for it would have easily missed the handover. The second courier didn't stop moving as he passed by the vehicle. In a blink-and-you'll-miss-it move, a hand popped out of the driver's window as the man passed, and disappeared almost immediately. The envelope the walking man had received was shoved directly into his inside breast pocket. Behind him the car roared to life and reversed back down the street.

Pressing himself further into his shadowy corner, Illya drew his special and waited for the courier to draw level him. Stepping out of the darkness, he began to demand the package. Unfortunately, the Thrushie seemed to have been expecting something and kicked Illya's gun away before he could finish his demand. The Russian instantly launched a counter attack, and punched the man hard. Losing his balance as he did so, he fell onto the courier and the pair grappled for two or three minutes.

Eventually, Illya managed to gain the advantage and knocked the man out cold with a back hand to the temple. He wasted no time in fishing out the envelope. After picking up his gun, Illya headed for the brightly lit main streets, and blended into the crowds. His orders were to go straight back to headquarters, but Illya decided a cup of black coffee was his first priority. Memories had been stirred up and he needed to settle them before going back to work. Finding himself a quiet corner in a busy diner, he thought over the evening's events.

The back street hadn't been the first one he'd had to stake out, but it was the first time one had brought his childhood back to him. Illya knew what had caused it, but had kept it to himself. Even Napoleon was in the dark about it.

The day was the twenty-fifth anniversary of the murders of his mother, grandmother, and sisters. It had been a dark day for the eight-year-old, and one which was the beginning of a life which had led to U.N.C.L.E. The fight with the Thrush courier had only served to remind him of the many street fights he had gotten into in the city. Food had been scarce, and every scrap had to be fought for. Illya had even seen people killed over scraps of meat, and had once stolen some bread while others were battling for it; using his slight frame to squeeze through the grappling people.

Illya was in danger of falling into a pit of self-pity and was glad when his communicator chirruped. Shielding it behind a menu, he answered the call from Napoleon.

"Have you got it yet?" the American asked. "Waverly is getting impatient."

"I am on my way," Illya told him. "Do you have plans for tonight?"

Napoleon heard the tone in his partner's voice, and recognised it as a need to talk about something. He made a mental note to postpone his date with Candace.

"I have an unusually free evening," he lied. "How about dinner at my place?"

"Perfect," Illya replied. "I'll bring the vodka."


	54. A Birth

**10** **th** **March 1964**

It had been a long morning, filled with tedious meeting, and by the time Napoleon and Illya went to lunch it was already 2pm. Dull meetings and a late lunch made for one very cranky Russian. His mood darkened when he found the commissary full.

"I shall pay for my lunch and take it to our office," he said to Napoleon, as they joined the end of the line.

"Don't be so unsociable, Tovarisch," Napoleon chided. "By the looks of it most of these people will be leaving soon.

Illya conceded the point and, after buying his turkey sandwich, he sat down at a corner table. He had only just taken his second bite when an excitable Mark Slate came in and joined them.

"It's a boy!" he announced.

Napoleon and Illya both raised their eyebrows, but it was the American who spoke.

"Does Mr Waverly know about this?"

"I should imagine so," Mark replied, looking confused. "He is British after all."

"I believe we may be thinking at cross purposes," Illya cut it. "Has some had a baby? If so, who?"

"Queen Elizabeth!" the Brit stated, as if it should have been common knowledge already. "She has given birth to a son."

Prince Edward Antony Richard Louis was the fourth child of Queen Elizabeth the Second of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and her husband, Prince Philip. Despite it being only his first day on Earth, the child was already third in line to the throne, having bypassed his older sister, Anne.

"Why is this cause for celebration in your nation?" Illya asked with a slight sneer.

"Oh, come on Illya," said Napoleon. "A baby is always a cause for celebration."

"That is not what I meant," the Soviet replied. "It is only right for the parents, family, and friends to feel joy at such an event. However, there are people in Britain who struggle every day for what they have, yet they celebrate the arrival of another person for whom struggle will never be an issue. These people even contribute to the luxurious lifestyle of the Royal family while they scrimp and save.

I will admit that the Queen herself does do something for international diplomacy, but there are so many others who abuse the position they have found themselves in. They have no care or the 'ordinary people', who fawn and simper. So, forgive me if I am unable to understand a mind-set that believes someone to be better than them simply because they were fortunate to be born into privilege. This child is just another leach on the British populace."

Re-wrapping his sandwich, he stood up abruptly.

"Excuse me," he said, picking up his lunch. "I will eat this in my office."

He left, leaving Mark and Napoleon open-mouthed at his rant.


	55. Another Day, Another Cell

Opening his eyes, Illya became immediately aware of stone walls and steel bars. The last thing he remembered was splitting up from Napoleon, and breaking into the small Thrush output, just before being enveloped in a green gas. As was often the case with any Thrush concoction, Illya was left with a sickening headache. He tended to react badly to drugs, which an U.N.C.L.E. medic had postulated was a result of chronic malnourishment in childhood, leading to a compromised immune system. Illya himself put it down to the universe having it in for him.

As he pulled himself into a sitting position, on the filthy cot, he checked for his communicator but, unsurprisingly, he had been relieved of it. He'd also been divested of anything he could use to mount an escape attempt. His only option was to wait. Hopefully, his partner would come for him before his captor. Not that he was going to sit idle.

Carefully, Illya climbed to his feet and waited for the room to stop spinning and his stomach to settle down. When he was ready he gave the cell the once over. It didn't take long. Other than the cot, there was no furniture. In one corner was a drainage hole, which Illya assumed was for body function. The light for the room came from a barred, glassless window high up on the all opposite the barred doorway. It was big enough for him to get through, if only his explosive putty hadn't been taken from him. Inspection complete, Illya sat down again.

"If I had a ruble for every cell I'd been locked into, I would be a very rich man," he muttered.

"Careful Tovarisch, your avarice is showing."

Illya's head snapped towards the window, where he saw Napoleon grinning down at him.

"Are you going to help me out of her, or are you going to stand there smiling?"

Solo's grin got wider in response to Illya's annoyance.

"Fear not, I'll have these bars out before you can say 'have you got those bars out yet?'"

Illya would have rolled his eyes if his head hadn't been pounding so hard. He was embarrassed and frustrated to have been captured once again, and the last thing he needed was his partner's sense of humour.

While Napoleon dealt with the bars, Illya moved the cot under the window. Within two or three minutes, he was free. Napoleon contacted Mr Waverly to inform him that the mission was a bust, and the two agents headed back to the office.

A short while later, Illya's captor entered the cell and stared forlornly at the empty room. He had already informed Central of his high profile prisoner and his future suddenly looked very bleak.


	56. It Comes to Us All

Alexander Waverly fastened the buttons of his brown worsted suit and examined himself in the full-length mirror. Del Floria was a talented tailor and always made suits which fitted like a glove, while disguising things which ought to be hidden. There was one thing the garments couldn't hide however.

"When did you get to be so elderly," he asked the reflection.

It didn't seem like so very long ago that he was young, strapping man who was full of vim and vigour. He remembered the lithe, fit body he once possessed, in a time when he could have given the men under his command a run for their money. He could perform acrobatics which could have rivalled the talents of Mr Kuryakin, and could wear clothes in way which would make Mr Solo look scruffy. These days, although he was a lot fitter than many men of his age, Waverly's physical appearance showed every one of the years he had lived through.

It didn't happen often, but there were times he wished he could go back to his younger days, though he was quite glad he wouldn't have to go through the two world wars again. It would be nice to climb a staircase without the accompanying cracking of his knees. Sleeping through a whole night without having to get up for a bathroom visit would also be a nice bonus.

As he mused on the failings of old age, his wife, Veronica, came into the bedroom.

"Your driver his here, my dear."

She walked over to him and began to do those little actions indicative of a proud wife. She straightened his tie, brushed imaginary fluff from his shoulders and lapels, and tucked a flower into his buttonhole. She then kissed him and wished him a good day.

As Mr Waverly was whisked to the office, he thought about the woman he loved. She too showed the signs of her age, but he never saw them. Whenever he looked at her, he only saw the woman he had fallen in love with all those years ago. They may have both reached old age, but he wouldn't trade their decades together for anything.


	57. Element of Surprise

The rowing boat drifted along the lazy, meandering river without any form of control. Within the vessel, a blond man in a white t-shirt and trousers lay flat out; the hot yellow sun beating down onto his pale face and arms. To the two rifle carrying men on the river bank, the boatman appeared to be dead. Following a brief conversation about what their boss would think, they decided to pull him in. If nothing else, they would end up with a free boat. Neither of them thought it was worth the bother of informing anyone else. If the guy was indeed dead, they would throw him in the water. If he wasn't dead, he would still end up in the river.

As the boat floated towards a nearby jetty, the taller of the two men ran to it, and grabbed a boat hook. Catching hold of the boat, he pulled it towards him, and tied it up. He then hauled the unconscious man onto the jetty, with the help of his colleague.

"He's alive," he stated, with the tone of one you didn't really care.

"Not for long," replied the other, with a shrug.

Before they got the chance to do anything, Illya Kuryakin's eyes snapped open. He reached up to the taller man and pushed him into his comrade. In one smooth move, Illya jumped to his feet, pulled a gun from the holster hidden at his back, and darted the two men. He quickly retrieved their rifles and deposited them into the river.

With barely a pause, Illya made his way to the house the two men were meant to be guarding. Having the element of surprise on his, he soon took out the remainder of the guards, before going into the house. Illya was able to move around the small mansion without any obstacle as the security inside was non-existent. The man Illya was after was known to be arrogant, so probably assumed the guards he had outside were enough. Illya found him sitting behind a large, ornate desk.

"Greetings from U.N.C.L.E.," he said flatly, enjoying the look of shock and surprise on the man's face.

His quarry naturally went for his own weapon, but was stopped in his tracks by a sleep dart to the chest.

Illya retrieved his communicator from his sock and called Napoleon.

"Your plan worked," he told his partner. "You can bring the clean-up team in now."


	58. A Prickly Mission

"You are a man to be admired, Illya Nickovitch."

Illya looked to his partner and narrowed his eyes in question. Napoleon had a habit of addressing him in many different ways, such as 'IK', 'Partner', or most often 'Tovarisch', which was something he was quite used to. It was unknown, however, for him to use the formal way of address favoured by those from Slavic nations. Illya realised that the CEA was trying to butter him up, and he also knew why. He had no doubt that the next few minutes were not going to go well for him.

"What is it about me which you so admire, Mr Solo?" Illya replied, with equal formality.

"Well," Napoleon began, putting his hands on the other man's shoulders, in a disconcertingly friendly manner. "I admire the way you always do your duty, no matter what the circumstances. I admire the way you are willing to risk injury, and even death, to gain a satisfactory outcome to a mission. Most of all, I admire how little you care about damaging your attire while on a mission."

For several long, chilly seconds, Illya said nothing. He fixed Napoleon with steely glare.

"If you want me to fetch the package from out of the blackberry thicket," he said, in a dangerously low tone. "Then simply say so."

"I want you to fetch the package from out of the blackberry thicket," Solo echoed, with just a little too much relish.

Illya briefly thought about arguing, but knew he would lose in the long run. He reached into his pocket for his leather gloves, before remembering they were in his desk drawer, in his office. He demanded the loan of Napoleon's, only to be told he'd lost them.

With a sigh which promised that words would be exchanged later, Illya pushed his way into the prickly bush, which was heavily laden with fruit. Neither man had questioned why the courier had left the package where he had, as they had been on much more difficult retrievals. This didn't stop Illya from silently cursing the man as his clothing was snagged and ripped, and his hands and face were scratched by prickles.

Illya's mood was already darkening when he lost his footing and fell against the branches. His hands pressed against a wall, which was barely visible behind the thicket, causing several blackberries to burst and coat his skin with the purple juice within. With a loud curse in his native language, Illya grabbed the package and fought his way back out of the bush.

He thrust the package at Napoleon, causing the juice which had transferred from his hands to the paper, to smear over the man's crisp, white shirt. Illya then placed a hand on each of Solo's shoulders, echoing Napoleon's earlier move, and announced that his mission was complete. As Illya headed back to the car, Napoleon was left wondering if his dry cleaner could remove purple handprints from his light grey suit.


	59. Ambush

Illya landed heavily on the parched, brown dirt and rolled before his assailant could aim a kick at him. His head was already ringing from the well-placed fist which had been planted on his left eye, but he didn't have time to think about the pain. Or the fact the swelling was already beginning to affect his vision.

Jumping to his feet, Illya landed a punch on the other man's nose, instantly breaking it, and causing it to spray blood. This had the effect of angering the man, who was twice the size of Illya. He swung his fist once again but, instead of hitting his victim's head, he changed direction at the last moment, and drove it into his stomach.

Illya dropped to his knees, winded. However, before he could retaliate, the attacker wrapped a huge hand around the smaller man's throat. Lifting him from the ground, he threw him hard against a wall. Illya slumped, trying to regain the air to his lungs which had been knocked out of him.

Unfortunately, the huge guy wasn't finished. He grabbed Illya by the front of his shirt, and shook him like a rag doll. The Russian's head snapped back a forth painfully but, despite his best efforts, he could do nothing to stop it.

Illya was about ready to succumb to unconsciousness when he heard the roar of an engine, coming towards him. The next thing he knew was that both he and his assailant were lying on the ground.

"Late again, Solo," Illya gasped, trying, but failing to pull himself up.

"Friend of yours?" Napoleon asked, indicating the now sleeping thug.

"One of the security guards at the Thrush facility," Illya slurred. "He must have seen me leaving and come a different way, to ambush me. Don't worry, I got the information I went for."

Napoleon helped his exhausted partner to his feet, and guided him to the car. By the time he walked around to the driver's side, Illya was insensible. He winced at the large bruise which was already forming on the, too pale, face.

Another visit to medical was on the cards, and the staff had barely recovered from the last one.


	60. I Owed her

The morning hadn't been going well for Illya. His alarm had failed to go off, meaning he had to miss taking a shower, lest he be late for work. He hoped he'd be able to find time once he was at the office. Arriving with only a few minutes to spare, the last thing Illya needed was an over-friendly receptionist.

"Good Morning, Mr Kuryakin," Betsy greeted enthusiastically. "And thank you so, so much."

Contrary to the norm, she reached over and attached his badge, despite him holding a hand out to take it from her. Every woman who worked on reception had learned that Illya didn't like people in his personal space. Unlike Napoleon, who always thrust his chest out, and kept his hands out of the way.

"Morning, Miss Warren" Illya grunted, puzzled as to why she was thanking him.

"I just couldn't believe it when Napoleon told me," she continued. "I was stupefied. Who would have thought I would ever get the chance?"

"Told you w. . .?" Illya tried to interrupt, but couldn't stop the words gushing from the excitable woman.

"I have the perfect dress," Betsy went on, entirely unimpeded by Illya's attempt to speak. "It is a deep red, floor length, and with a low cut back. I hope that you'll like it. I think you will."

"Miss Warren!" he said firmly.

The woman finally stopped talking.

"Why are you thanking me?" he asked.

...

"Good morning, Tovarisch," Napoleon greeted his partner as he entered the office.

Being engrossed in signing off several piles of reports, he failed to see the look of absolute thunder on the Russian's face. It was only after he didn't receive a response that he looked up. These days it was rare for the patented Kuryakin stare to have any effect on Solo, but this was one of those rare days. Napoleon could practically see ice forming in the brilliant blue irises.

"How are you?" he asked, and offered his most charming smile.

"Apparently I have a date with Betsy Warren this evening,"

The edge to Illya's voice could have cut through steel."

"Ah, she told you."

"She is very excited," Illya replied. "Care to explain?"

"I owed her," Napoleon said, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture. "She helped me to catch up with my paperwork that backlogged while you were laid up in medical."

"It is your paperwork, you could always do it yourself," Illya pointed out. "None of this goes any way to explaining why I am taking her on a date tonight."

"I asked her how I could replay her, thinking she'd want a night of dinner and dancing with me," Solo told him. "Turns out that all she wanted was one date with you."

Illya ran his hands through his hair; a clear indicator to Napoleon that the man was not happy. He was glad there was a desk between them.

"Would it not have been prudent to inform me, before arranging it with her?" the Russian asked.

"You would have said no," Napoleon answered. "I also know that, despite this whole 'Ice Prince' thing you've got going on, you are one of nature's gentlemen. Therefore, you wouldn't let her down. Don't you like her?"

"She is nice enough," Illya conceded.

"So you'll do it?"

Illya stared at his partner for an uncomfortably long time, attempting to send a silent message that he would not forgive, or forget him for this.

"Very well," Illya surrendered. "But don't expect me to use my own money."

He held his hand out as an invitation for Napoleon to get out his wallet. The American did so, and pulled out a few large bills. He laid them on his friend's palm, but Illya didn't move. He handed over two more, but this was also not enough. In the end, he gave him the whole wallet. Illya took out all the bills, replaced $30, and handed the wallet back.

"I'm taking Danielle out tonight," Napoleon protested.

"Then I hope she likes inexpensive dates," Illya replied coldly, before leaving the office.

In the corridor, he stuffed the cash into his own wallet and grinned. When Betsy had told him he was taking her dinner, he had been quite put out. However, after thinking about it, he began to look forward to it.

Not that he was ever going to let Napoleon know that, or get away with such underhandedness.


	61. Rescue from Above

The sky was the exact shade which had given its name to the colour, sky blue. It was dotted with fluffy white clouds, more akin to something from a child's painting than what was usually found in reality. They were being propelled across the expanse of blue by a listless breeze. Those same breaths of air caused the green grass of the countryside to ripple like a lake, and the bright, yellow ball of the sun bathed the area in a welcoming warmth. The scene could almost have been described as idyllic, if it wasn't for the bleeding, semi-conscious man, and the extremely dead man beside him. One was an impeccably dressed brunet, and the other had been a black-clad blond.

Napoleon Solo concentrated on the clouds above him, attempting to recognise shapes within them. He was willing to try anything to take his mind off gunshot wound in his hip while he awaited rescue. The pain was excruciating, but Napoleon refused to succumb to it. He wanted to be awake when his salvation arrived. Mr Waverly had assured him, when he'd called in for help, that a helicopter would be with him within fifteen minutes. That had been fourteen minutes ago.

Solo turned his head and looked at the back what was left of the blond head beside his. He couldn't see his face, but neither did he particularly want to. Whatever features had once been there had all but been obliterated by a bullet, at point blank range. There would be no rescue for him.

The sound of rotor blades drew his attention back to the sky and, within a minute or two, Napoleon found himself flanked by two people. The medic, on one side, immediately got to work on treating his wound. On his other side, Illya Kuryakin looked down at the dead man.

"Thrush?" he asked his partner.

Napoleon nodded, too weak to vocalise an answer.

While Solo was loaded onto the helicopter by the medic and the pilot, Illya wrapped the body in a tarpaulin and dragged it to the vehicle. For all it was in an isolated area, he didn't want to leave it until a clean-up crew could get there. As he covered he was hit by an involuntary shiver. He wasn't at all squeamish, and the sight of the man's destroyed face didn't really affect him all that much. However, whoever the man was, he seemed to have been of similar height and stature to himself, and Illya found it hard to dispel the idea that he was manhandling his own corpse.


	62. One Little Push

One little push was all it would take. One little push, of an innocuous little button, and U.N.C.L.E.'s New York HQ would be pumped full of a noxious green gas. One simple little push.

However, for Gregory Parker, it wasn't so simple.

It had taken several weeks of preparation and implementation for Thrush to infiltrate U.N.C.L.E. and secrete the gas canisters of deadly poison gas. The final task was given to Parker who, as a man aspiring to climb the Hierarchy, had been more than willing to be the operative who 'swung the axe'.

That had been before he'd seen what the gas actually did.

Parker had been delighted upon being invited to witness a test of the stuff. He had big ambitions for his career within Thrush, and the invite was a sign that he was being taken seriously. The test subject had been one of the many homeless people from New York's streets; someone who wouldn't be missed. The man had been placed, unfettered, into clear plastic cell and the gas pumped in with him.

Within the seconds, the man had been writhing on the floor, and Parker could hear the sickening sound of bones breaking as muscles contracted too far. Worst of all was the sounds coming from his mouth. It had started as a scream, before rapidly turning into a hideous gurgle. The poor man's body, when he finally died, had been left as a contorted mess, and it had taken everything Parker had not to lose his breakfast there and then.

Now, as he sat across the street from Del Floria's tailor shop, all Parker could think about was the terrible deaths he was about to inflict on so many people. He had wanted to be a big name in Thrush, and take his place as part of the ruling elite. Having come face to face with the truth of what his organisation stood for, all of his ambition had disappeared. Unfortunately, Thrush did not tolerate failure, so he knew he had little choice but to go through with it. His finger hovered over the button which would release the gas, but he couldn't bring himself to press it.

"I can't do it," he said out loud.

"I'm glad about that," came voice from outside the car.

Parker looked up into the face of Napoleon Solo and smiled with relief. Being captured by the enemy was far preferable to going back to Thrush.

"Hand over the detonator, and get out of the car," Solo instructed.

One little push would have wiped out all of U.N.C.L.E. New York but, for Gregory Parker, it was a push too far.


	63. Not Such a Monster

The battle had been short, and brutal; with both men sustaining much bruising. It only ended when one man was felled by a particularly vicious chop to the throat. Tied to a chair and watching on, the face of twenty-two-year-old Mary Bocelli was a mask of terror, as the man who had kidnapped her dropped heavily to the ground. An ugly purple bruise was already spreading across his neck. The blond man, who had come to her rescue, turned to face her and she couldn't help but shrink back slightly.

Although he had a pleasant appearance, there was a look of pure venom in his eyes, which was terrifying to Mary. This was merely a vestige of the adrenaline he'd had in him for the fight, and it had quickly disappeared. Mary, however, found herself even more scared of this man than she had been of her captor. Throughout the fight he had appeared more like a snarling animal, or a monster, than as a human. He was much smaller than Mary's kidnapper, but he had fought with a power she couldn't believe.

In reality, she knew she the blond man was there to save her, but what she had seen in his eyes was not the look of 'Prince Charming'. To her, he had looked to be a professional killer, which she had no doubt he was. Her father was a powerful man, and knew how to get the help he needed, when he needed it.

"Miss Bocelli?" the blond man asked.

His voice surprised her. It was deeper, and softer than she'd expected, with a slight accent.

"Y...yes," she replied.

"I am Illya Kuryakin of the U.N.C.L.E.," he told her as he undid the ropes binding her. "The ambassador is waiting for you at your hotel."

"Daddy?"

At the mention of her father Mary began to sob. She had been brought up to be strong in the face of adversity, but the shock of the last few hours finally caught up with her. She began to visibly tremble and, suddenly, she felt the strong arms of Mr Kuryakin wrapping around her. He held Mary tightly, but gently, and told her that she was safe now. Despite her thoughts of only moments before, she did indeed feel safe in his arms.

"Everything okay, Tovarisch," asked Napoleon Solo, entering the room.

"Miss Bocelli is in a state of shock, but she will be fine," Illya told him. "Would you take her to her father, while I clean up here?"

Mary looked to the man Mr Kuryakin was talking to and was surprised to see a handsome, friendly face. He wasn't a bit like his colleague, and looked every bit the 'Prince Charming' of her fantasies. Napoleon introduced himself and invited Mary to go with hm. Before she left, she quietly thanked Illya. She was rewarded with a bright, beautiful smile, which completely dispelled the monster she had witnessed a few minutes previously.


	64. The Not-So Great Escape

From his hiding place inside a broom closet, Illya could see a little of what was happening in the brilliant white corridor, and could hear quite a lot; as long as he had the door open a little. He had spent a long time planning his escape, and just getting this far had taken far longer than he would have liked. However, the chances of being caught were high, so Illya was reluctant to make his break too quickly. He had no doubt that, should he be discovered, things would not go well for him.

Illya had been captive for three long, miserable days, and had become convinced that rescue wouldn't be coming his way anytime soon. So, not for the first time, and probably not for the last, he had resigned himself to undertaking his own rescue.

It had taken over half an hour to get this far, which didn't bode well. Getting out of this section was one thing, but he had the rest of the highly secure building to negotiate next. Listening very carefully, Illya was pleased to note that he could hear nothing but the ever-present background sounds. He couldn't detect a single voice or footstep. Now was his chance. All he had to do was break cover, cross the corridor, and leave through the door which was tantalizingly opposite the closet.

Not daring to risk looking around, Illya eased out from his hiding place and darted towards the next part of his escape. Unfortunately, as soon as his hand was on the door, a voice rang out.

"Mr Kuryakin! Get back into bed at once!"

With a pout which was usually to be found on a child, Illya turned to face Nurse Maisie Redfearn. The head nurse of U.N.C.L.E.'s medical section stood, with her hands on her hips, and a glare which dared Illya to defy her. With his shoulders slumped in defeat, and his ears burning red with anger and embarrassment, the chastened Russian shuffled back to his bed. As he passed Nurse Redfearn, she fixed him with an icy stare which rivalled his own.

"Try this again, Mr Kuryakin, and I will have no hesitation in sedating and restraining you."

Illya said nothing to her in reply. He merely grumbled under his breath all the way back to his room.


	65. Can't Be Good at Everything

As the orange light of the early morning dawn gave way to clear blue skies, Napoleon Solo couldn't help but be struck by the beauty of their surroundings.

"It's no wonder they call it the Emerald Isle," he stated, staring out of the window of their stationary vehicle.

In the driver's seat, Illya looked out across the lush green landscape of County Cork, Ireland. The place truly was spectacular, and it more than made up for the ridiculously early start.

"How long before the courier is due?" he enquired.

Napoleon glanced at his watched and told Illya that the man should arrive within the next five minutes.

"Do you remember the code phrase?"

Illya gave Napoleon a look which would have had other men squirming on the spot, and pointed out that he wasn't a rookie. Solo smiled at his partner's annoyance and prompted him to say the phrase anyway.

"I'll dance with the devil and thank him."

"You forgot the accent," Napoleon told him. "It's part of the code."

"Oi'll dance wit de divil n tank him."

"What was that?!" asked Solo, flabbergasted at just how terrible Illya's attempt at an Irish accent was. "You sounded like a cartoon leprechaun."

Illya scowled. "It was what you asked for," he snapped.

"If you speak like that around here, you'll get us shot."

"I would like to hear you do better," Illya challenged. "I am far more adept with things such as this than you are."

The Russian knew that, although the American could speak and understand several languages, his aptitude with accents was sorely lacking; especially when it came to French.

"My dear Illya," Napoleon said, in a tone which set the blond even more on edge. "Your ability with accents is second to none, but you can't be good at everything. I'd better do the talking on this handover."

Illya huffed. He wasn't a proud man as such, but he did have pride in the things he was good at.

"I am still waiting to hear you do it," he said, sulkily.

To Illya's eternal astonishment, Napoleon repeated the phrase with an absolutely perfect Cork accent. Illya narrowed his eyes in suspicion, which cause Solo to laugh, almost uncontrollably.

"How does a man, who is as dreadful with accents as you, manage to do such an exceptional Irish one?"

Napoleon smiled knowingly, debating with himself whether to let Illya in on the secret. As much as he was tempted to keep him in the dark, Napoleon decided that he didn't fancy the idea of travelling with a sulky Russian.

"My grandmother was born here," he revealed, before laughing once again at Illya's expression.


	66. New Year Joy

Not for the first time, Napoleon found himself waiting for his partner to complete his part of the assignment. It was a simple data retrieval and destruction mission. Solo had already extracted the files he had gone into the satrapy for, and was now waiting in their vehicle a short distance away. As was usually the case, Illya had opted to set the explosive devices but was taking his sweet time. He often did if given the opportunity and, although he claimed he was merely being thorough, Napoleon knew that the Russian was actually trying to cause as big a bang as he could get away with.

Illya Kuryakin was generally not a man who indulged in excesses. He lived a simple life, albeit with a few of life's little luxuries, and h was quite frugal. However, there were two things which he didn't hold back with. The first was food, and the second was things which went boom.

The thought crept into Napoleon's head that, maybe, his partner had been intercepted. Deciding he would give him ten more minutes before attempting to make contact, he glanced at his watch. Seeing that it was two minutes to midnight, on December 31st, Solo smiled wryly. He now realised what the delay was, and it had nothing to do with being captured.

From the satrapy, he heard the sound of an alarm sounding, though it didn't worry Napoleon too much. He knew a fire alarm when he heard one. Despite having a bloodthirsty reputation, Illya preferred not to blow people up if he could help it, and often evacuated a building first. People began to pour from the satrapy and Napoleon kept a sharp look out for his partner.

He soon spotted him emerging from an unused doorway, and watched as he darted towards him. It was a dangerous move as his black clothing stood out starkly against the moon bathed white snow. Luckily, no-one seemed to notice him. As Illya clambered into the car, Napoleon heard him quietly counting down.

"Four, three, two, one!"

The cold air was filled with the sounds of Illya's bombs going off and causing the building to implode and collapse in on itself. A split second later the night sky was illuminated by the bright colours of many fireworks bursting. It took Napoleon longer than he would care to admit to realise the fireworks were emanating from the satrapy.

"Is that your doing?" he asked his favourite pyromaniac, who was grinning a little too excitedly.

"Nyet," Illya replied, with unalloyed joy shining in his eyes. "Someone must have had them prepared for the New Year celebrations."

Solo would probably be unable to prove it, but he was fairly certain Illya had just lied to him. It was seriously doubtful that Thrush would want to draw attention to their satrapy by setting off colourful explosions above it. However, as the mission was accomplished, he chose not to press the point. Everyone was allowed a little frivolity from time to time.


	67. New Year Blues

Napoleon tucked his communicator away with a deep sense of regret. He hadn't wanted to lie to his partner, but he also hadn't wanted to spoil the festivities. Napoleon simply wasn't in the mood for the HQ New Year's Eve party, and had told Illya that he would try to get there, but would probably be late getting back from assignment. He had no doubt that the other man would assume he'd lined up a tryst with a lady friend, but he was actually alone in his apartment.

Napoleon could have easily told Illya the truth about where he was, and why, but he didn't want to take him away from the celebrations. New Year was a big deal in Russia and, in the time Solo had known him, Illya had become far more open to joining in with staff parties.

After pouring himself a scotch, Napoleon flopped onto his sofa and sighed heavily. A new year was about to begin but, for him, it would be bringing an end. Technically, since turning thirty-nine a few weeks previously, he was already into his final year as a field agent. However, he had been trying to push the whole idea away by telling himself that it wouldn't happen until 'next year'. In two hours' time, when the clock ticked over midnight, Napoleon's retirement from active duty would be happening 'this year'; which made it seem so much closer. Napoleon downed his drink and lay back with his eyes closed. He was soon gently snoring.

He woke with a start at the sound of someone knocking on his door. Somewhere in his subconscious he recognised the rhythm as the coded knock of his partner and came to full wakefulness. Glancing at his watch as he went to door, he smiled grimly at seeing it was five minutes to midnight.

"How did you know I was here?" he demanded, as he opened the door.

Illya raised an amused eyebrow at Napoleon's question.

"You do remember that we have the ability to trace a communicator?"

Napoleon gestured his partner in, and accepted the bottle of scotch he had brought. He asked what had prompted Illya to trace him in the first place.

"There was something in your voice which sounded unlike you," Illya explained. "We have been partners so long that I can tell when something is wrong."

"We won't be partners much longer."

So that is the problem, Illya thought to himself. Napoleon had always been a man of action and the thought of being deskbound was obviously weighing heavily on his mind. The Russian understood perfectly. He was a year younger than Napoleon and, as well as his own retirement looming on the horizon, he didn't relish the idea of working for a year without Napoleon covering his back.

"I am skilled at many things, my friend, but turning back time is beyond me."

Napoleon smiled. He topped up his glass and poured one for Illya.

"I suppose I should be grateful that I made it this far," he said, raising a silent toast and swallowing the liquid. "I doubt I would have if I hadn't had a partner I can trust implicitly, and who can read me without even trying."

Illya echoed Napoleon's silent toast.

"I cannot deny that ours has been a successful partnership, and I will regret the day it must come to an end. However, that day is still several months away, and we still have time to save the world a dozen times over. You never know, if you manage to get yourself killed beforehand, you'll never have to retire."

Solo barked out a laugh and suddenly felt lighter than he had. Illya's statement about 'managing to get killed' had been uttered with absolute seriousness, but Napoleon could see the humour in the man's eyes.

"We can only hope," he replied with a chuckle, pouring them both another drink.

From outside, the sound of church bells and fireworks alert them to the start of the New Year.

"None of us can know what will come," Illya stated. "We can only hope we have the courage to meet it. Happy New Year, moy droog."

"Happy New Year to you too, Tovarisch," Napoleon replied.

They made and drank another silent toast before Solo suggested ordering some Chinese food. Illya readily agreed.

"You can pay," the Russian said solemnly. "You dragged me away from a very good party after all."

Napoleon snorted another laugh. They may only have a few more months as partners, but they had a friendship which would last a lifetime.


	68. Sharp Recall

A bright shard of early morning sunlight lanced through the window of the museum and flashed from the highly polished gold blade which was being wielded by Illya Kuryakin. He held the ruby encrusted hilt in a reverse grip, so that the blade pointed down from his fist and enabled a slashing motion. Swiping it through the air a few times, Illya looked every bit the lethal assassin he had often been.

He was hurrying between the exhibits of international swords and daggers when his attention had been entirely arrested by kinjal knife, and he come to an abrupt halt in front of it. The gold and rubies made it far more ornate than any he'd seen before, but its double-edged shape was unmistakable.

Memories came to the surface of his mind of a time long ago. When he was young, he had become acquainted with a group of Cossacks and they had shown him how to use a blade to a deadly degree. Initially, the way they could attack and defend using one simple piece of metal had been a wonder to young Illya; especially the way they combined it with exceptional physical prowess. Naturally, with his innate athleticism, Illya had taken to it like a duck to water. The skills he had learned from the Cossacks had proven useful to him many times in the intervening years; saving his life on many occasions.

The knife he was currently holding was purely ceremonial, and had probably never seen a fight, let alone drawn blood. However, an experimental touch of one of the cutting edges, causing blood to leak from his thumb, was enough to tell Illya it combat ready. A smile appeared on his face which was a strange mix of terrifyingly joyful.

"Any chance you could finish this rescue?" asked Napoleon Solo, who was tied to a pillar near to where Illya had found the knife.

"Sorry, Napoleon," Illya said, coming back to the present. "I apologise for being distracted so easily."

"I can just about understand why," Solo replied with a chuckle, as Illya used the knife to cut him free. "Still, I'd prefer we didn't hang around here for too long."

As soon as Napoleon was free he started to make his way towards the exit. He stopped suddenly and turned round in time to see Illya tucking the kinjal into his belt.

"It's not yours, Tovarisch," he warned.

"Muscle memory?" Illya tried, before reluctantly replacing the knife where it belonged.

He was one of the good guys after all.


	69. Soggy Soviet

Illya Kuryakin steamed as he squelched his way from the U.N.C.L.E. parking garage into the main complex. This wasn't just a euphemism for his anger. Water vapour was gently rising from him as exited his car. The steam was as a result of the warm weather having an effect on his sodden clothing. Behind him, he left a trail of muddy footprints along the corridors. The cleaning staff were not going to be happy, but Illya didn't care.

Several of the men he passed thought about making a snide comment about his state, but the expression on his face quickly changed their minds. He was definitely not a happy man. The women, however, had a different reaction. The dampness of his black trousers, and black turtleneck sweater, caused the already tight garments to cling to him in an even more attractive manner. The way his mussed-up hair clung to his forehead only served to make them want him more. Not that Illya noticed their almost inaudible sighs.

Napoleon was working on a report in their shared office when Illya dripped his way in. It took every ounce of the American's willpower not to laugh at his partner's sorry state. The infamous Kuryakin glare was terrifying to most, but it washed over Napoleon.

"You seem somewhat soggy my sopping Soviet."

"You are a funny man, Solo," Illya replied, taking out his 'go' bag from a drawer in the filing cabinet.

He dug out a dry set of clothes and returned the bag to the cabinet. He would have to hope he wasn't sent on assignment at short notice before he could replace the garments. Napoleon grinned in that way Illya always found infuriating, causing him to slam the drawer so hard that the cabinet clanged against the wall.

"Temper, temper, Tovarisch. Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"I fell."

"You fell?"

"I fell."

"Care to elaborate?"

Illya fixed his partner with another icy stare, but it failed to have the desired effect.

"I was observing a Thrush meeting in Central Park," Illya explained. "When it was done, I started on my way back. Unfortunately, a small dog ran under my feet and I tripped, ending up in the lake."

Napoleon could hold back no longer and a loud guffaw ripped from him.

"So much for the graceful man with the cat-like reflexes."

"I am going to change," Illya muttered, ignoring Napoleon's jibe.

"Okay, but can I ask you something?"

Illya nodded curtly, knowing that his partner was about to make one of the terrible jokes he seemed to find hilarious.

"Did you enjoy the 'trip'?" Napoleon asked, fighting against another burst of laughter. "And are you going back next 'fall'?"

"Bozhe Moy!" Illya declared, before rolling his eyes and leaving his partner to chuckle on his own.


	70. Would You Go Back?

**_Stars when you shine, you know how I feel  
Scent of the pine, you know how I feel  
Oh, freedom is mine, and I know how I feel  
It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me_**

 ** _And I'm feelin'... good_**

 ** _"_** ** _Feeling Good" ~ Michael_** ** _Bublé._**

 ** _..._**

"Who chose this as a meeting point?" Napoleon asked, as he almost tripped for the fifth time. "Three people meeting in the middle of a pine forest, at four in the morning, is far more suspicious that meeting in a crowd during the day."

Illya didn't reply. Napoleon was a city boy at heart and, although he could survive in the woodland without any problems, he much preferred to be immersed in civilisation. He was guaranteed to still be complaining when the meeting was over, and they were making their way back.

"I don't see why we both needed to come," Napoleon continued.

"It's an unknown contact, and you are carrying $3000," Illya reminded him, knowing that Solo was well aware of that fact. "It is merely for security."

The pair walked on in silence until they came to the clearing the contact had specified. They had ten minutes to wait before the appointed time, and neither agent relished waiting out in the open. It was decided they would stay amongst the trees until the other man came. Illya got down and the ground and lay flat on his back. From his position, he could see the stars fading against the lightening sky, as the new day began to dawn. He took a deep lungful of air through his nose, relishing the scent of the pine trees.

"Do you actually like it here?" Napoleon asked, as he sat down beside him.

"It reminds me of home," Illya replied. "My village was on the edge of a forest which contained many pine trees. Almost from the moment I could walk, I was climbing the trees as often as I could."

Napoleon could well believe it. He had witnessed Illya's amazing ability to scamper up vertical surfaces, and could imagine what he would have been like as a child.

"I miss it."

It was a simple statement, but it was said which such a tone of grief that Napoleon couldn't stop himself from placing a supporting palm on Illya's shoulder.

"I am fine, Napoleon," Illya told him. "I just sometimes wish things had been different."

"It isn't possible of course, but if your fairy godmother suddenly appeared and offered you the chance to grow up surrounded by your family, would you accept?"

It was something Illya had thought about many times, though he didn't use the fanciful notion of a fairy godmother. The pain of losing his family, and his idyllic life had never left him, but he had learned long ago how to cope with it. However, the life that he was currently living had given him opportunities which would never have been his otherwise. Not that the ability to see the world was any consolation, but Illya played an important part in the safety of the world, and was able to prevent others from losing as much as he had.

He was also relatively free. From his teens, his life hadn't belonged to him. Until he had joined U.N.C.L.E. he had always been in a command structure which allowed him little to no chance of individuality. He was still within a command structure of course, but he held a fairly lofty position, and outside of work he could pretty much live his own life. Freedom, for a given value of free, was his, and he enjoyed it. Probably more than he should.

He had indeed wondered many times if we would go back given the chance, and had concluded each time that he wouldn't. He missed his family and his childhood home bitterly, but their loss was what had made him who he was, and he was happy with the person he'd become.

"No," he finally replied to Napoleon's question. "Things are what they are."

Before Napoleon could say anything, a figure emerged from the trees at the other side of the clearing. He told Illya to cover him from his hidden position. He was only away for a minute and a half before returning with a piece of paper.

"That was fast," Illya commented. "I hope that paper is worth the money."

"We won't know until we get back and check all the names on it," Napoleon replied. "The contact claims that they are some of Thrush's largest backers."

"Would you mind if we stayed here a bit longer?" Illya asked, as Napoleon was about to leave. "It may sound a little odd but, despite the sad memories it has brought up, I am also reminded of happy times, and I am feeling good."

Napoleon nodded his agreement. How could he deny his friend his moment of peace?


	71. Roll Out the Barrel

Napoleon felt ill at ease as he and Illya strolled through the night-time back streets of Lambeth, in South London. From the various pubs and inns they passed, there were the unmistakable sounds of men drinking, singing, and fighting. This wasn't the hip and happening part of the city which was famous for its cosmopolitan bars and restaurants. This place was for the salt of the Earth working classes. In deference to the area, the two agents had dressed down in an effort to blend in.

It had been decided that Solo would not speak unless it became necessary. There were many east European accents to be found in amongst the lower classes, but an American voice was rare, and would be liable to cause too much attention. Napoleon wasn't entirely sure why he'd needed to come in the first place, but their contact man had insisted.

They reached the Three Horse Shoes pub, in which they were meeting their contact, but as Illya reached out to the door, it was suddenly opened form the other side. Orange light spilled out onto the street, along with a chorus of 'Rollout the Barrel' from a group of men who were all singing at different speeds. It swiftly followed by a large, inebriated man. A person who Napoleon was almost certain was a woman stepped out. She was shorter than Illya, but was built like a woman who knew what hard physical work was.

"Get away home, George Morgan," she instructed, in a tone which brooked no argument. "I'll not 'ave that kind of bleedin' language from the likes of you."

"I never said nothin' you don't say yoursel', Gertie."

"Difference is, I own the place."

She stood with her hands on her hips and waited for George to skulk off down the alley. As she turned to go back in, she noticed Napoleon and Illya staring at her.

"Are you two plannin' on comin' in, or not?"

The two agents came to their senses and followed the woman in. Neither of them wanted to be on the receiving end of her ire.

Once inside, they scanned the room for their contact. It was easier said than done. The whole room was thick with a fug of smoke from cigarettes and pipes. Eventually, Napoleon spotted Mark Slate. He was at the opposite side of the room from the piano and the Ill-timed singers. Even though they both knew Mark well, they had to give the sign and countersign to prove they were there for the same thing.

"I am in need of a shave," Illya told him. "Where can I find Sweeny Todd?"

"You're on the wrong side of the river, mate," Mark replied. "You need to go to Fleet Street."

The three men relaxed and smiled. Mark shook both men's hands, and has he grasped hold of Napoleon's he passed a folded up piece of paper to him. It contained the details of an international Thrush bigwig.

"Let me buy you a both a drink."

"We need to head back with this," Napoleon said, quietly.

"If you leave without drinking, it may look suspicious," Illya reminded him.

Mark bought three pints of ale and, while he and Illya downed them in one, Napoleon took his time. The Brit and the Russian had drunk two more by the time he finished.

"They won't let you on the flight if you're drunk," Solo whispered into his partner's ear.

"Do not worry, my friend." Illya told him, and clapped his and on his shoulder. "Waverly has okayed it for me to stay for an extra day. You are flying home tonight, and I am going on a pub crawl with Mark."

"A pub crawl?"

"Yep," Mark confirmed, handing Illya another pint. "I haven't done it for years, and he is reliving his university days."

Napoleon shrugged, before wishing them both a good night. He watched as they made their way across the bar room to join in with the singing; arriving just in time for another rendition of 'Roll out the Barrel'. Knowing how much both men could drink, Napoleon was fairly certain more than one barrel would be required. He was just glad he would be out of the country when the bail money would be needed.


	72. Rivals

The bottle, and two shot glasses, sat in the centre of an otherwise empty table. The late-evening sunlight streaming into the window, refracted through the clear liquid within, and left a rainbow lying on the wooden surface. Sitting on opposite sides of the table, two men weighed each other up. Each wondered who would take the victory, though both knew the answer.

It had all begun as friendly rivalry between new partners; a natural competitiveness which exists between those who a forced to work closely together. One had claimed that he was stronger than the other, which had been resolutely rebutted. Soon after, following the urging of colleagues, a series of physical tests had been arranged. One won some, the other won the rest, but no clear victor emerged. Both men were too equally matched.

To those observing, the battle had concluded in a draw, so they went off to find other avenues of entertainment. For the two men however, things were far from over and, although their friendship never wavered, their battle for superiority endured and hardened over time. Then a falling out had come.

One had made a careless mistake which had led to the other getting badly hurt. It hadn't been pre-meditated, but it should have been avoided, and this caused a rift between the two; albeit temporary.

While there was discord between the partners, their brotherly rivalry was suspended, and a war of words had ensued. Naturally, although their vocabulary was different, they were still equal in vitriol.

The rift had been open for three days when one approached the other with a ceasefire proposal. A private meeting was arranged, and a bottle was offered in peace and camaraderie. The man who had brought the vodka opened the bottle and poured two shots. He handed one to the other, whose bruises were still purple on his battered face. No toast was given, and both drinks were downed in unison.

This went on until three quarters of the vodka was gone. The uninjured man could take no more, and he gracefully slid from the chair and landed in an untidy heap. The other smiled grimly at having won this battle, before picking up the bottle and draining it of its contents. As the custom of his people dictated, he placed the empty bottle on the floor. A little unsteadily, he retrieved a blanket from the bedroom and covered his slumbering partner, before collapsing heavily onto the sofa.

….

The following morning brought pain to the two men but, luckily, they had taken the precaution of taking the day off. Neither man was in a fit state to save the world. Groaning loudly, Napoleon Solo opened his eyes, and quickly realised he was lying on Illya's apartment floor. Pulling himself up, he found the Russian sitting on the sofa with his head in his hands. Realising that Solo was moving, Illya stood up, a little shakily, and headed for the kitchen. Napoleon carefully climbed to his feet and followed him in.

"Coffee?" Illya asked.

"Please."

A few minutes later, the two men were back at the table. Each had their hands around a mug, and were breathing in the aroma of the coffee.

"Forgive me Illya. I'm sorry, and I swear it won't happen again."

Illya snorted.

"Yes, it will. But next time it could be the other way around. Making mistakes is what makes us human."

Napoleon smiled at the acceptance of his apology.

"How about I take you out for breakfast?"

"Make it lunch," Illya commented, looking at his watch. "It's already 11:30."


	73. Digging for Death

"Dig!" Snapped Greg Goodman; urging his captive to speed up his task.

If he hadn't been almost at the point of physical collapse, Illya Kuryakin would have rolled his eyes. To him, the whole situation bordered on the ridiculous. However, that was Thrush for you. The man who was holding a pistol on him, could have ended his life at any given time. However, for reasons he had never been able to fathom, Thrush seemed to have a deep love of theatrics.

Illya had been a prisoner of Goodman's for two days, and had endured my torments and tortures. Despite the various agonies, Illya had refused to give anything over, and the Thrush quickly lost patience. He had ordered two guards to cuff Illya's hands in front of him and drag him outside into the grounds of the compound. The Russian was then handed a spade and instructed to dig his own grave. Even though the thought of dying this way terrified him, he couldn't help but be struck by the absurdity of it. It was like something from a movie.

For several hours, Illya dug into the sun-baked ground. Digging a large hole always took longer than people assumed it would, and being hampered by cuffs wasn't helping matters.

"Dig!" Goodman repeated.

Illya had slowed down, partially through exhaustion, and partially because he could see he was almost finished. A small part of him briefly wondered if he could use the spade as a weapon, but he dismissed the idea. He had a pistol and two rifles pointing at him, so wouldn't stand a chance. He had spent his whole life trying to survive, and he wasn't about to give it up so easily just yet. With no other options presenting themselves, Illya had no other choice than to keep digging.

"Stop!" Goodman commanded. "I reckon that's big enough. It would seem that being a smaller man has its drawbacks."

Illya thrust the spade away with as much force as he could muster, which was not very much at all.

"Last chance to talk, Kuryakin," Goodman said as he sipped on a cool glass of water which had been brought out to him.

The Russian's parched tongue tried to salivate but, as he was almost at the point of dehydration, nothing happened.

"I have nothing to say," he rasped.

"Fair enough."

Although he'd been half expecting he shot, Illya was still surprised when the bullet entered his shoulder. He dropped to his knees with a grunt, whereupon Goodman strode over and kicked him into his grave.

"I hope you have made your peace with your maker," the Thrush stated, before instructing the guards to fill the hole.

Pain and exhaustion filled Illya's mind with a pink fog and, in spite of his best efforts, he was unable to muster the strength to help himself. As dirt began to rain down on him, he finally accepted that his death had arrived. He had always known it would come early but, foolishly, he'd sometimes allowed himself to believe otherwise.

Above him, the sound of multiple weapons being fired filled the air. Illya barely noticed. Nor did he register the weight of the body of Greg Goodman landing on top of him. A short while later the weight disappeared and Illya felt several hands grabbing hold of him and lifting him up. With a stupendous effort, he opened his eyes and saw the worried face of his partner.

"Where have you been?" he croaked.

"I come all this way, pluck you from your own grave, and this is the thanks I get?"

"Spasiba," Illya whispered, before allowing blessed darkness to claim him for a while.

Napoleon Solo grinned. Illya wasn't in a good way, but it could have been much worse. Besides, if he had retained the ability to be snarky, then all would be well.


	74. Simple Pleasures

Despondency was the order of the day for the top team of U.N.C.L.E. New York. Following a week of dead-end leads, false intelligence, and the uncovering of a mole within headquarters, neither Napoleon, nor Illya, was feeling particularly upbeat. It felt as though everything that could go wrong had gone wrong.

For almost twenty minutes the pair had been sitting in silence at a local diner; each nursing a cup of coffee which had long since gone cold. Napoleon hadn't even taken an interest in the new waitress who, with her ample assets and inviting lips, was very much his type.

"Things could be worse," stated Napoleon, in an unnecessary, and forced, tone jollity; a hopelessly doomed attempt to pick up the mood.

"How so?" queried Illya ,a little bitterly.

He was in no mood for Napoleon's brand of, often irritating, positivity. Ordinarily, he had no real problem with it, and usually let it flow over him but, right at that moment, he was content to wallow in self-pity.

"Well. Neither of us has had a brush with death this week," Solo told him. "And you've even managed to get through entirely intact. No scratches, bruises, broken bones, Thrush serums..."

"I do not get hurt every week," the Russian cut him off, somewhat indignantly. "You make it sound like I am never out of medical."

Thinking about it though, he couldn't deny that it seemed to happen more often than one would expect; even given his line of work. Plus, for some reason, he always received it worse that his partner, whose usual concern at the end of a mission was another damaged suit. If it wasn't for the fact he didn't believe such things, he could almost be convinced that there was some higher power that enjoyed him suffering.

The men lapsed back into silence and they both stared out of the window. Outside, a cold, grey drizzle wet the pavements. The weather suited the atmosphere in the agent's booth. Their reverie was interrupted by the owner of the diner putting a piece of apple pie in front of each of them, and fresh cups of coffee.

"We did not order this, Joe," Illya told the man.

Joe knew many of the agents from U.N.C.L.E., as he was a retired member of Section 3 himself. Although he had technically left the command, he was still also on the payroll as a civilian informant. Also, his diner was the closest to headquarters, so had naturally become the go to place for those who didn't want to use the commissary.

"These are on me," Joe replied. "You both look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders, and it must be bad if even the ever-positive Napoleon Solo can't raise a smile. Or his libido around my new girl, Fiona, for that matter."

"Just one of those weeks," Solo answered, flatly.

"Well, I doubt I can help you with any of it but, nothing can be so bad while there's apple pie in the world."

Illya picked up his fork and shovelled a large amount into his mouth. Within two seconds a slight smile appeared on his face. He took another bite, and began to grin.

"This is the best apple pie in America," he decalred.

"Just America," Solo asked. "Not the World?"

"Nothing can beat Austrian Apfelstrudel."

Tucking into his own piece, Napoleon had to agree that it was indeed delicious.

"Though not quite as nice as my grandmothers," he said.

As they ate, both men thought over the week they'd had. It hadn't been their best, but neither had it been their worst. All they could do was pick themselves up, dust themselves off, and get back into the fray. As soon as they finished, headed back to the office and, on the way out of the diner, Napoleon made sure to get Fiona's number.

It was the simple pleasures which made life worth living.


	75. A Dance, Not a Chase

"Any luck yet?" asked Napoleon, as his partner attempted to pick the lock of the cell in which they were being held.

He himself was sitting on the horribly stained cot, cradling his injured left arm.

""Still no," Illya replied, growing increasingly weary of Solo constantly asking. "You will be the second to know the moment I succeed."

"You mean the first."

"No. I will be the first."

The pair had been caught breaking into a remote Thrush Satrapy, thirty minutes previously, by two guards. From what the agents overheard, their boss was away, so Solo and Kuryakin had been tossed into a cell to await someone from a much higher pay grade. Unfortunately, they were a little too rough with Napoleon, who had landed awkwardly and broken his arm.

"You can usually break out quicker than this," Solo grumbled. He was in pain, which was fuelling his impatience.

"What is your hurry?"

"I have a date tonight."

Illya sighed. He really should have known, given that it was rare for Solo to not have a date on his free evenings.

"The only date you will have is with a doctor, to get that arm fixed. Do you never tire of chasing women?"

"I don't 'chase' women," Napoleon stated emphatically. "It's less a pursuit, and more of a dance."

"Please enlighten me," Illya said, with no conviction whatsoever.

"Well, to use the dancing metaphor, I first step towards her, and invite her to the dance floor. She then moves aside, making me change the steps, and I tempt her towards me again. She steps away once more so that I have to change direction once again. Finally, she accepts the dance I'm offering, and we sweep away into the night."

"So, basically, you and the woman negotiate," said Illya, not taking his eyes from the lock he was working on. "And she persuades you to give her everything she wants."

"It isn't like that at all. It's a two way street and we both get what we want."

Illya shook his head in disbelief. For a self-professed expert on the 'fairer sex', Napoleon seemed to have absolutely no idea that he was being played half the time.

"So who is it tonight?" he asked.

"Meryl," Napoleon told him. "Since the support staff switched to those yellow sweaters, I've really noticed her assets."

"She has a mind too you know," the Russian mumbled, before exclaiming an 'aha' of triumph. "Ready to go, my friend?"

A few hours later, with his arm in a cast, and the other arm wrapped around Meryl, Napoleon thought back to what Illya had said. He had to concede that his partner may have had a point when he said the women always got what they wanted. However, he decided that it wasn't an issue because, at the end of the day, so did he.


	76. A Much Needed Break

_Pull Myself Together  
Put on a new face  
Climb down off the hilltop, baby  
Oh, I get back in the race _

**_-Dreams – Buddy Miles-_**

 _…_ _.._

The bright, warm sunshine beat down onto the bronzed, relaxed form of Napoleon Solo. For two wonderful weeks he hadn't had a single care in the world. The most strenuous thing Napoleon had done over that time was to walk from his beachside cabin to his lounger on the sand. U.N.C.L.E. had even kept their promise not contact him except in the direst of emergencies. As a matter of security, he checked in with Illya once a day, but no other communication was made. With every day that had passed, his troubles had lessened, and he now felt ready to pull himself together and get back into the race.

Beside Napoleon, squirting tanning oil into her hands was a beautiful and leggy red-head. He had met Lexie on the first day as she had emerged from the cabin next door. Since then, they had rarely been apart. For Napoleon, the vacation had most definitely been filled with sun, sea, sand, and sex. He moaned contentedly as Lexie massaged the oil onto his chest.

"Must you leave tonight?" she asked, a little petulantly.

"Sorry, my dear," he replied dreamily, without opening his eyes. "It's time for me to climb down off the hilltop."

"Hilltop? This is a beach."

Napoleon mentally shook his head in exasperation. Lexie was a whole lot of fun, but she appeared not to be the brightest of people. However, being on vacation, Solo had no interest in pursuing anything intellectual. What he needed was to relax and enjoy himself, and Lexie was able to provide that perfectly.

"It's a metaphor," he told her patiently. "A hilltop is remote and far from people. That is what this vacation has been for me."

Following a particularly difficult time in the hands of Thrush, the break had very much been needed. The normally upbeat Napoleon had become exceptionally despondent and the U.N.C.L.E. psychiatrist had prescribed time away from everything, which Alexander Waverly had readily agreed to. With the help of Lexie, it had been precisely what he'd gotten.

"It's a shame," she said. "The last two weeks have been marvy."

"You knew it had to end eventually."

"I know," she replied. "I have to go back to work myself."

"There are still a few hours before I have to head off," Napoleon said, suddenly sitting up.

He put a hand behind Lexie's head, and drew her in for a kiss.

"I imagine we can fill that time in quite easily," he continued. "Then you can get back to U.N.C.L.E. Los Angeles."

"You know?!"

"I was sent on this vacation by a boss who knew I was at a low ebb," Napoleon explained. "He was aware I was coming here alone, so it was a matter of protocol that he would send a bodyguard. I'm just very grateful that he had the good taste to appoint someone who would prove to be the perfect distraction."

Napoleon had worked it out very early on, and it had been confirmed when he overheard Lexie talking on a communicator to Illya. It occurred to him to be annoyed, but he quickly dismissed the thought. He was CEA so therefore, it made complete sense.

"So, what do you say?" he asked. "How about a long goodbye?"

Lexie smiled. Standing up, she held out her hand to guide Napoleon to his feet. Hand in hand they went to his cabin, and Solo finished his vacation with a bang.


	77. The Best of Enemies

Illya Kuryakin drummed his fingers on the steering wheel before checking his watch for the twentieth time. He was waiting for his partner, who had gone into a motel room thirty minutes previously. It wasn't the first time he had been left waiting while Napoleon met a contact, but this time was very different. The person he was meeting had turned out to be Angelique.

It was fairly obvious immediately that nothing work related was going to happen, which left Illya feeling somewhat voyeuristic. Admittedly, he wasn't witness to anything that was happening inside, but he was excruciatingly aware of it. Another ten had minutes passed when Illya's communicator began to beep.

"Kuryakin," he snapped, after assembling the device

"Where are you," Alexander Waverly asked. "And why is Mr Solo not answering his communicator."

"We had a request for a meeting from a contact," Illya replied. "Mr Solo is with her now."

"Her?"

"I do not know who she is," the agent lied.

Illya chewed on his lip as he listened to Waverly grumble about Solo and his dalliances.

"I want you both back here immediately," the Old Man instructed. "You are flying out to Spain this evening."

The channel was shut off abruptly, and Illya looked across at the door Napoleon was behind. He was going to have to interrupt things. He thought about using the communicator but, since it hadn't been any use to Waverly, he would no doubt have the same lack of success. Reluctantly, he got out of the vehicle and went to knock on the door.

At first there was no answer. It wasn't until he called out that the door was finally opened. However, it was Napoleon standing on the other side, but Angelique. She was wrapped in a blue bed sheet, and had a look of panic on her face.

"You'd better come in," she stated bluntly.

He quickly followed her inside where he found Napoleon lying on the floor, with his eyes closed. He was also naked, so Illya grabbed a sheet to cover him before checking him over. After ascertaining that his partner was alive, Illya then drew his gun and aimed it at Angelique.

"What have you done to him?" he demanded, as he advanced on her.

"It was an accident," she told him.

She seemed to be genuinely concerned for her lover, but Illya continued moving towards her until she backed into the wall. He then stood, with the gun inches from her heart.

"What happened?" he growled; a look of absolute hatred etched onto his face. "How long has he been like this?"

"Listen, you Russian runt, you can drop the demon act," she snarled back at him. "He fell from the bed about five minutes ago, and hit his head on the cabinet. I've been trying to wake him up."

A groan from behind him told Illya that his partner was starting to come to, but he didn't take his eyes, or his gun, from the woman in front of him.

"Napoleon darling, are you alright?" Angelique asked her lover.

Solo sat up and rubbing his head, he very quickly took stock of the situation.

"I have a headache, but I'm otherwise fine. Did I miss something?"

"Your sulky Soviet is under the impression that I hurt you," she told him. "Call him off, please."

"Stand down, Illya," Napoleon commanded. "Will you two ever reach a truce?"

Kuryakin did as his partner requested, albeit grudgingly. He simply didn't trust the blonde bitch, and would never understand why Napoleon flirted with the danger of sleeping with the enemy.

"You were unconscious," Illya stated. "For all I knew her superiors had finally instructed the harridan to dispose of you."

"You really are the most unpleasant little . . ."

"Enough!" Solo said forcefully, as he climbed to his feet; carefully holding the sheet around him. "Honestly, they could print a series of those pulp novels about you both. You do realise that constant bickering is actually a sign of affection."

Napoleon shivered as two sets of blue eyes pierced him with ice. He held up his hands in conciliation.

"We are ordered back to HQ," Illya informed him. "And Mr Waverly will be expecting a report from you regarding the contact who requested to meet you. I told him she was unknown to me."

Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and strode back out to the car; leaving Napoleon staring after him. He was almost certain he would have a believable story by the time they got back.


	78. Untitled (for now)

Once again, Illya found himself strapped to a hard metal chair. Another mad Thrushie had been raving at him for several extremely long minutes. This kind of thing was becoming far too regular for his liking, almost routine in fact, and he briefly wondered why Napoleon managed to avoid so often. Not that the American hadn't been on the receiving end of a fair few interrogations; it just felt to Illya like he got the lion's share. As was usual in these situations, the man who had him prisoner was waxing lyrical about how Thrush Central was going to lavish him with rewards for handing the Russian to them; dead or alive. Illya had heard the same sentiments expressed many times, so allowed his mind to wander.

His current captor was a large man who had a mane unkempt red hair, with a matching bushy beard. He reminded Illya strongly of a man from his childhood, called Stoyan, who had lived in his village. He and his friends used to call him 'Chudovishche' _(Monster),_ because he was six foot five, and because of the way he would roar at them if they went too near. A slight smile appeared on his face as he remembered the time he had been dared by the others to enter Stoyan's workshop, and had been caught. The giant had grabbed hold of Illya's jacket with his enormous hand, and carried him to his mother. The beating he'd received from his Mama had left him with a sore backside for the rest of the day, but it had been a small price to pay to win the admiration of his friends. A sudden sharp slap to his left cheek brought Illya back to the present.

"Are you even listening to me?" the Thrushie demanded; somewhat put out by the lack of reaction to his threats.

"Forgive me," Illya replied. "I was remembering someone from long ago, who you look very much like. Of course, the difference between you and he is that I was afraid of him."

"I have just threatened to torture you with an overdose of water. . ."

"An overdose of water?" Illya cut in. "Is that your way of saying you were going to drown me?"

He was rewarded with another slap, which was far harder than the last one, and he soon tasted the tang of blood from a slip lip.

"You won't be so flippant after I've forced a hose into your gullet and filled you with water," the Thrush snarled. "It will go from uncomfortable to lethal fairly quickly, unless you agree to answer my questions."

Illya couldn't deny that it would be an unpleasant way to die but, as he pondered his response, his tormenter drop to the floor, with a dart in his neck.

"Could you not have done that sooner?" Illya asked, glancing around in an effort to see where his partner was secreted.

"I just got here," came a voice from above him. "Although, I was in time to hear how gruesome your future was about to be."

It took no time at all for Napoleon to remove the grill of the air duct, and drop into the room.

"I could always go away again," he said, as he began to free his partner.

"Believe me, my friend, I am very grateful for your arrival," Illya told him, with genuine relief. "The torture he had planned for me was quite possibly preferable to listening to him gloat and intimidate."

"Come on then, Tovarisch," Napoleon prompted, as soon as Illya was free. "Let's finish the job and go home."

Just over two hours later, the Thrushie, who Illya had learned was called Angus MacBay, woke up in an U.N.C.L.E. cell. Although he was still feeling the effects of the sleep dart, he quickly came to full wakefulness when he saw the man who had been his prisoner.

Illya's smile was almost predatory as he stood on the other side of the bars, with a hose in his hand.


	79. Advantage Solo and Kuryakin

The tennis ball bounced against the wall and returned to the racquet of Illya Kuryakin; where he hit it once again. He had been doing the same thing for almost twenty minutes and it was beginning to bug Napoleon. The pair of them were being held by Thrush and, for reasons they had yet to fathom, had been locked in a gymnasium. Even more incongruous was the tennis net which had been stretched across the space. They had spent a fair amount of time seeking an escape but, having been relieved of all their equipment, they were stuck.

"Must you do that?" Solo snapped.

"There is nothing else for us to do but wait," Illya replied. "I am merely taking the opportunity to get some exercise. There is another racquet over there, why don't you join me?"

Napoleon thought about declining, then shrugged in resignation. Illya was right. They had no way of knowing how long they would be there, so they might as well fill the time in some way. The agents usually didn't have anything to distract them whilst imprisoned. Standing up, Napoleon shrugged off his jacket and picked up the racquet.

"All we need is a set of white clothing, and we could almost be at Wimbledon."

Solo and Kuryakin played for well over an hour, with the Russian having the slight edge over his partner. As they played, they discussed several escape scenarios. Illya had just won again, and a new game was starting, when the door opened. Without breaking stride, Napoleon changed the angle of his shot, and aimed the ball at the person entering. It hit him square in the forehead and, although it didn't knock him out, it stunned him long enough for Illya to land the punch which did.

"Game, set, and match," he said, with a satisfied smile, before he and Napoleon made their escape.


	80. Heaven Can Wait

"What do you think heaven looks like?" asked Napoleon Solo as he watched his partner intently.

Illya was attempting to disarm an explosive device which had been fastened around Solo's chest. The strapping was made of strong wiring, and there were no visible locks to pick. The first choice would have been to cut the retaining wires, but Illya had no means with which to do it. He'd looked around for some bolt cutters, or something similar, but nothing had been forthcoming. There was also the little tricky issue of the timer, which was steadily counting down, and which told him he only had four more minutes; leaving no time to search further.

"You are not dead yet, my friend," he replied. "Besides, I am the wrong man to ask such a question."

"Have you ever believed?"

"When I was a child," Illya said, in a tone that was designed to let Napoleon know that he did not wish to discuss it. Unfortunately, and understandably given the situation, Solo had the next life on his mind.

"I wonder if there are gardens in Heaven," the American went on. "I like the idea of spending eternity just watching things grow. I will need something to occupy me when the pleasures of the flesh are no longer an option."

"Will you please be quiet, Napoleon, or we may soon be discovering which of us is correct."

Illya had a problem which was very much Earth based, and he wasn't sure how he was going to solve it. Whoever had made the bomb had, rather annoyingly, used wiring which was all brown, and that had been tangled. This made it difficult to decide on the correct one to cut, and the timer was already down one minute.

"We have a choice Napoleon," he said, solemnly. "We can wait for the bomb to go off or, I can cut all the wires and hope we survive."

"There is a third option, Tovarisch," Solo replied, with equal solemnity. "You can get out of here."

"Nyet."

"I could make it an order."

"I will cut all of the wires," stated Illya, ignoring his partner completely.

Wasting no more time, he sliced through them all, and breathed a sigh of relief when the countdown stopped at twelve seconds. However, being the pessimist, he didn't fully believe it was disarmed, so mentally counted off the rest of the time. When nothing happened, Illya allowed a small smile to cross his lips, albeit fleetingly.

Having more time to search, Illya finally found something to cut the wire strapping, and Napoleon was soon free.

"Another close call, Illya," Solo said, with relief. "Though I should reprimand you for ignoring your CEA."

"You didn't actually make it an order," Kuryakin replied, with an infuriating grin.


	81. Tired of Saving the World

_~Oh Hawaii  
My Hawaii  
Skies are blue  
The sea's a thousand hues of green  
In Hawaii  
Waves keep breaking  
In each rise and fall  
They call  
For me_

 ** _My Hawaii – The Rascals~_**

 _~Sometimes the road gets a little bit rough  
Your strength is all gone, you had enough_

 _ **Rascals - A Ray of Hope~**_

...

The sun was already warm as it rose from beneath the horizon, bathing the crescent-shaped Kailua Beach on the island Oahu, in a clear light. It was still early, and the only people on the beach were the surfers, along with lone figure who was sitting and watching the water. Sitting motionless, even after quite a few hours, Illya Kuryakin stared at the waves. If he concentrated on the various greens of the ocean, he could almost forget who he was, and why he was there.

Illya, for the most part, enjoyed his job, and truly believed in the principles of U.N.C.L.E. He honestly thought of himself as a man who was working for the betterment of humanity. There were days, however, when the road got a little bit rough, and he could easily throw the whole thing away. Those were the days when it felt as though the battle was being lost, and that continuing to fight was an exercise in futility.

For Illya, the last minute disruption of another insidious Thrush plot to destroy mankind was one last minute save too many. Although no-one had died, because he and Napoleon had arrived in time to prevent half the island from blowing up, Illya still lamented the evening's events. Usually when they were victorious, he experienced a kind of elation, but not this time. All his strength, both physical and mental, seemed to have gone. He'd had enough of saving the world.

Shifting his gaze, Illya watched the surfers; one in particular drew his attention. He was clearly a novice; falling from his board every time he tried to stand up. Yet, he refused to quit. Eventually, with the support of his friends, the surfer was soon able to balance. It only took a few more attempts for his confidence to grow, and he was able to tackle the waves alone. Not that his friends left him by himself. They stuck close, ready to help him up if, and when, he needed it. As he watched the man overcome his difficulties, Illya was joined by the man who supported him when he needed a hand up. Napoleon flopped into the sand beside his partner.

"Have you been here since we cleared out that Thrush nest?" he asked.

As soon as he had been able, Illya had disappeared, telling Napoleon he would catch up with him later.

"I had some thinking to do."

"And what have you concluded?"

"I thought I was tired of fighting," Illya replied. "While we win far more than we lose, the close calls often have me wondering why I continue to try. There may come a day when we utterly conquer Thrush, but there will always be evil of another flavour to fill the void, not to mention all the other would-be megalomaniacs out there."

"It's not an easy life we lead, Tovarisch, but the battles need to be fought by someone," Solo told him. "What do you mean by 'you thought you were tired'?"

Illya smiled as he watched the novice surfer ride a huge wave without falling before he answered.

"It is not the fight which tires me, but the foe. I may be down right now, but Thrush will not defeat me."


	82. Inked

How long have you had that?" asked Illya Kuryakin with incredulity, pointing at the blue ink tattoo on his partner's ankle.

The pair were in the changing room of U.N.C.L.E. New York's gymnasium, following a lengthy sparing session, and were stripping off in order to shower. The design of the tattoo was that of an Ankh symbol of ancient Egypt, and Illya knew that Napoleon couldn't have had it all that long. It certainly hadn't been there two weeks previously. Not that Illya spent much time looking that closely at his partner but, when you shared hotel rooms with someone, you got to know a lot about them.

"I keep forgetting about that," Napoleon answered, in a tone which indicated he had no wish to talk about it. Unfortunately, it was a tone Illya chose to ignore.

"Are you really Napoleon Solo, or an imposter with a highly identifiable mark?"

Napoleon shot Illya a sour look. He knew the Russian was joking but, something like this could very easily lead to suspicion in an organisation such as theirs. He would have to explain it. He would also have to have the 'Distinguishing Marks' section of his personnel file amended.

"I've had it a week," he finally admitted. "I was helping April investigate a heavily tattooed Thrush operative who apparently favoured a specific tattooist. She was reluctant to go in herself. The guy wouldn't tell me anything unless I agreed to 'get some ink'."

"Why an Ankh, and why your ankle?"

"It represents life and immortality," Solo explained. "I figured it might bolster the 'Solo Luck' a little."

Illya nodded at the explanation. He always told himself that he didn't believe in such things as luck. However, even he had to admit that he and Napoleon had escaped from too many certain death situations for it to be just down to skill.

"I chose my ankle," Napoleon continued. "Because I figured it wouldn't be seen by all that many people. I hadn't realised it was so big until he'd finished."

"So, only the female half of the population will see it." Illya quipped.

He ducked just in time for Solo's shoe to miss him.


	83. A Thrush Innocent

Napoleon Solo sighed contentedly as he listened to the sound of the ocean gently lapping onto the sand. Reclining in a hammock strung between two palm trees, and stripped down to his shorts, he basked in the warmth of the Floridian sun. He and his partner had completed their assignment and had been given leave to stay on for an extra day. Illya himself had sought out a place from which to hire scuba equipment, and was somewhere beneath the water.

"G..good afternoon, Mr Solo."

Opening one eye, Napoleon was greeted by the sight of an unknown man, who was standing over him with a pistol. He opened the other eye in order to get a good look at him. He was only a kid, aged about nineteen years of age, and was seemingly quite nervous.

"You have me at a disadvantage," Napoleon stated.

"I..I'm sorry," the stranger said, "M..my name is George Sim, and you almost ruined my life yesterday."

With as much dignity as was possible, Napoleon managed to get out of the hammock. Ignoring the fact he had a gun pointing at him, he slowly, and carefully, pulled on his trousers and shirt. Despite appearances, Napoleon was certain the kid wouldn't actually shoot.

"It's not that I doubt your assertion, George," he said, as he stepped into his shoes, "But you're going to have to explain a little further. I was fairly busy yesterday, but I don't recall seeing you."

"Y..you and Kuryakin b..blew up my job!"

Napoleon frowned. He and his partner, with the back-up of local Section 3 agents had destroyed a Thrush lab, taken everyone present into U.N.C.L.E. custody. It had been discovered that the lab was developing a new missile delivery system, which Alexander Waverly was keen to stop. In the past, they had had unfortunately caused innocents to lose their jobs as a result of putting Thrush out of action, but in this case, there were no innocents. The place employed only Thrush scientists and guards.

"You worked at the Thrush lab?" Napoleon asked. "I thought we rounded everybody up."

"I am, or rather w..was, a guard," Sim told him. "Yesterday was my day off,"

"There are other jobs," Solo replied.

Over the young man's shoulder, Napoleon saw his partner emerging from the ocean. Canting his head as he took in the scene, Illya indicated for Solo not to give him away. It was unnecessary, of course.

"This is the only j..job I could get after prison," Sim answered. "I wasn't even guilty of what I was convicted of, but no-one believed me."

"So why not just get reassigned elsewhere."

"I was a guard at a facility which was infiltrated and destroyed by U.N.C.L.E.!" Sim yelled, suddenly sounding much less nervous. "Do you think Thrush will welcome me back with open arms?"

"What will killing me achieve?" Napoleon asked, wishing that Illya would approach a bit quicker than he was.

The Russian had removed the scuba tank, goggles, and flippers, and was arcing around behind Sim, in an attempt to stay out of his peripheral vision.

"I'm not going to kill you," said the Thrush. "If I can hand you over to Central, they might reward me with a better position."

"Look George," Solo said, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture and taking a step towards him. "I don't wish to insult you, but bigger and better men than you have tried. They all failed."

"Don't move!" Sim yelled.

As he said it, an arm snaked around in front of his face, and pulled him backwards. In the same motion, Illya's other arm grabbed the gun. He then let go of Sim, who dropped to his knees and began to sob.

"D..don't lock me up again," he begged. "P..please. I..I can't do it. I can't do it."

Napoleon looked to Illya and silently asked 'What shall we do?'

In response, Illya could only shrug.

...

A week later, Napoleon and Illya paid a visit to a hardware store, owned by Jimmy Owens, a retired agent. He had a policy of employing ex-convicts, seeing it as a way of continuing to fight crime, by giving people a second chance. He didn't even mind that George Sim had been a Thrush guard.

"How's it going, George?" Napoleon asked.

"I can't thank you enough, Mr Solo," Sim enthused. "Especially after what I tried to do to you."

Napoleon waved the thanks away.

"I hated working for Thrush," George continued. "I knew they were evil, but I thought it was my only option. You have given me my future back."


	84. Vanity, Thy Name is Napoleon

By the time Illya Kuryakin, had located his partner, Napoleon Solo had been beaten almost to a pulp. The American had activated the distress beacon built into his tie pin while he was being attacked by three thugs. He had just passed off a package to a courier, in one of New York's many dingy back alleys, and was waiting a while to give the man time to get clear of him. Unfortunately, being a well-dressed, and apparently wealthy gentleman, he drew the attention of three thugs.

The would-be muggers were able to land several heavy blows, several of them skull jangling, before Napoleon was able to reach his special. By sheer luck, he was able to dart one of them. The attacker's sudden collapse caused the other to pause and, upon seeing the gun, they changed their minds about the robbery. Leaving their fallen colleague behind, they ran off into the night.

Napoleon made a valiant attempt to get to his feet, but failed miserably. His head was spinning too much, so he decided to stay on the ground until the help he knew was coming arrived. Thankfully, he didn't have to wait long, as he was only a ten minute drive from HQ.

"What happened," Illya asked.

Solo explained, as he was helped to his unsteady feet.

"What shall we do with him?" Illya pointed to the unconscious thug.

"Remove the dart, and leave him to sleep it off," Napoleon answered. "If he's lucky, he'll still have all his possessions when he wakes."

Illya nodded.

"Come on, my friend," he said, guiding his partner towards the car. "I think you will need a visit to medical."

"If the situation were reversed, you would refuse."

"Indeed. However, the situation is not reversed."

Napoleon snorted a laugh. Suddenly, he stopped walking, having caught sight of his reflection in a window. His hair was mussed up, there was dirt on his face, his jacket was crumpled, and his tie was askew. He pulled a comb from his inside pocket and carefully teased his hair back into place. Then he licked the corner of his blue silk handkerchief and wiped the grime from his face. Finally, he straightened his tie and smoothed out his clothing.

Illya watched it with fascination. It wasn't the first time he'd seen him tend to his appearance after some sort of action. There were times when a seemed a little too fastidious.

"Vanity, thy name is Napoleon," he stated.

"Vanity has nothing to do with it," Napoleon countered.

"Then what would you call it?"

"Good breeding!" the American snapped. "Are we going to HQ or not?"

Illya choose not to press the subject just yet, even though Napoleon's reaction had puzzled him somewhat. It wasn't until later, when Napoleon had been declared fit, that he broached the issue once more.

"I'm sorry I was tetchy," Napoleon apologised.

"You are forgiven, my friend, but only if you explain what it was about."

"Okay. Sit down, and I'll tell you a story."

From an early age it had been drilled into Napoleon, by his paternal grandmother, that a gentleman should always be well presented. Whatever the situation might be, there was simply no excuse for looking dishevelled. She had illustrated her point by telling him that the military members of his family, all officers, were never seen in an improperly dressed state; even in battle. It was, she'd explained, a question of good breeding.

There had once been a time, at a family wedding, that Napoleon's father had loosened his tie slightly. Napoleon's grandmother had forcibly straightened it, in front of all the guests, and had given him the lecture every Solo man had heard many times. The lessons had been so deeply instilled in him that it had become an unconscious thing. Napoleon was proud of his appearance, and he did preen, but it wasn't entirely down to vanity. Whenever he found himself in an untidy state, all he could hear was his grandmother berating him.

"Thank you, Napoleon," Illya said, as Solo finished his tale. "I will endeavour to be less judgemental in the future."

"Don't worry about it, Tovarisch," Napoleon replied with a smile. "Feel free to call me out on it anytime."

"I shall hold you to that."


	85. Lesson from a Master

"Your skin is a smooth as velvet and as soft as a peach," murmured Napoleon Solo, enticingly. "Your eyes. . ."

"Are you being serious?" asked Illya Kuryakin incredulously, cutting Napoleon off mid-flow. "You actually say such. . .what is the word?. . .Such corny things as this, and women actually fall for it?"

Solo looked almost affronted by Illya's inference. He considered his seduction technique to perfect.

"There's nothing wrong with the things I say," he said, a little too defensively. "Besides, it isn't just the words, but the way they are said."

"As soft as a peach?" the Russian continued. "From my experience, peaches tend to be fuzzy. That is not what I would call a compliment."

"Just shut up and let me finish will you!"

Illya gestured for the other man to carry on.

"Thank you!" Napoleon said, before taking up the pose he had been holding before Illya's interruption.

He held his arms as though he were dancing very closely with a woman, with one hand very low, in the small of her back would be.

"Your eyes draw me to your very soul, and they shine like the sunrise."

"Orange?"

"What?"

"The sunrise is usually orange," Illya told his partner. "I have yet to meet anyone, let alone a woman, who has orange eyes."

"I didn't mention the colour," Solo snapped at him. "I said they shone like the sunrise."

"That is not much of an improvement," Kuryakin observed, with an infuriatingly know-it-all tone. "The sun is at its brightest in the middle of the day."

Napoleon flopped down in his chair, sighing in frustration.

"I'm trying to offer you the benefit of my wisdom here," he complained.

As he said it, the door to their office opened, and Wendy from communications entered.

"Are you ready for our dinner date, Illya?"

Before he left, Kuryakin grinned at his open-mouthed partner.

"Thank you, my friend," he said. "But I can manage quite well on that score."


	86. The Wrong Man

The role of 'wide-eyed, naïve immigrant' was one which Illya Kuryakin played far too adeptly. His youthful looks, and oft-deployed pout and puppy-dog expression, only served to enhance the appearance of gullible innocence even further. Anyone who knew him well was very aware that there was little naïveté in him, and that all innocence had been taken from him at an early age. Had anybody been looking in at the predicament Illya had found himself in, they would detect absolutely no trace of the hardened, world-weary spy he was.

Illya had been in the middle of a one week leave and was walking home after a quick trip to the local store. He was dressed in pale blue jeans, and a dark blue t-shirt, in an effort to avoid any contact with anyone wishing him harm. He was known for his own style of dress, even by Thrush, so it was hoped the casual, non-black, dress would prove to be enough of a disguise.

It wasn't.

Illya had been grabbed right off the street by two people, gagged, and transported to somewhere about half an hour away. The kidnappers had carried the struggling agent down to a basement and shackled him to a wall. There they'd conducted a search. By pure chance, Illya was carrying nothing which would identify who he was, or that he was a member of U.N.C.L.E. He had expected his trip to the store to be no longer than ten minutes, so had merely pushed some cash and his keys into his pocket. Even his communicator was left behind.

"I knew today would be a good day," said the first man, who Illya had mentally named 'Stinky'. "Though, I never would have thought we'd get Illya Kuryakin so easily."

The other man, who Illya was calling 'Ugly', nodded in agreement. This man removed the gag from Illya and explained, in explicit detail, what would happen to him if he refused to answer their questions.

"Why you do this?" Illya asked in broken English, with his eyes wide, and a tone of abject fear into his voice.

"Don't play games, Kuryakin," snarled Stinky. "It won't wash with me."

"Please, you have wrong person. I Dima. Dima Garin."

Ugly pulled a pistol from his belt and aimed it at his captive's head. Illya recoiled from the weapon as best he could with his confinement and began to visibly tremble.

"Bozhe Moy! Bozhe Moy! Bozhe Moy! ( _My God!_ )" he wailed, staring at the black metal of the gun. "Pozhaluysta, nye delayte mne bol'no! ( _Please don't hurt me!_ )

Stinky slapped Illya hard across the right cheek and was astounded when the man burst into tears. The shaking and sobbing caused theThrush men to start wondering if they had got the wrong man after all. They knew Kuryakin to be a good actor, but this guy was an absolute emotional wreck. So much so, he'd actually started praying.

Ugly pulled Stinky to one side.

"What shall we do?" he asked. "I don't think this is Kuryakin, but we can't just let him go."

"We'll have to kill him," Stinky replied. "We'll dump the body somewhere away from here."

"I'm going to release you from the wall, Stinky told the crying man, "But don't try anything. My friend here will happily shoot you."

As soon as his wrists were free, Illya dropped to the ground, begging for his captors to let him go. Several escape scenarios flashed around his brain, but he wouldn't know his next move until the men who had taken him moved first. He didn't have to wait long.

Ugly pressed his gun against the top of Illya's head. With barely a beat, the U.N.C.L.E. agent reached up, grabbed the gun and, rolling to one side, he shot Ugly square in the chest. He died almost immediately. Illya swung the gun at Stinky, who held his hands up in surrender. The Thrush was instructed to turn around and hardly felt the blow which knocked him out. Illya shackled him where he had been mere moments before and went to call a clean-up team.

He really wasn't looking forward to Napoleon finding out about the whole incident. The American was already convinced the Russian could get himself into trouble without trying.


	87. No Harm in Looking

Sitting on the sidewalk in front of Del Floria's tailor shop, with his back against the railings, Illya Kuryakin waited. He and Napoleon were supposedly heading for the airport but, on the way out, they had just reached reception when Solo had darted back in. He shouted that he would follow Illya out in two minutes.

That had been twenty minutes ago.

As they were getting a cab, and accounting wouldn't take too kindly at paying a driver to sit idling, Illya chose to sit down after five minutes. He could have easily gone back inside but, as it was a nice day, he decided to wait outside. Glancing at his watch, he sighed in frustration. His partner could plan an operation down to the second, but his personal timekeeping was abysmal. As shadow fell across him and he found himself looking at a pair of purple leather high heels.

Slowly looking up, Illya's eyes took in two exquisitely shapely legs which became hidden at the knee by the hem of a purple cotton shift dress. He allowed himself to admire the shape of the woman's hips, waist and cleavage. It was then he noticed the red hair and realised who he was looking at so intently.

"April!" he exclaimed; embarrassed at being caught out. "I'm sorry, I hadn't realised it was you."

He quickly jumped to his feet.

"Clearly, darling," the female agent replied, with a knowing smile. "I know you're hardly a monk, but I never thought I'd see you looking so wantonly at a woman. And there's no need to apologise. It's nice to know that I can melt the Ice Prince."

"I..I.."

"Illya, it's ok," she assured the stuttering Russian. "While I don't generally enjoy being ogled, I can make an exception when it's from a man who rarely shows what he's thinking. It's great for the ego."

"What's great for the ego," asked Napoleon.

He had exited Del Floria's in time to hear the end of April's sentence. Her words, coupled with Illya's body language, told something had just happened between the two. His partner seemed to be trying to crawl into himself.

"Now that would be telling," April told him.

She winked at the blushing blond and, without another word, headed into HQ.

"What was that about, Tovarisch?" Napoleon demanded.

"We're going to be late," Illya replied, ignoring the question completely, and holding out an arm to hail a cab.

Napoleon smiled to himself. It was a long flight to West Germany, and he was certain he would get Illya's secret out of him before they landed.


	88. At What Cost?

"How did the mission would end this way, Tovarisch?"

"There was a tiresome inevitability to it."

"It was only supposed to be a simple information gathering assignment. How did we end up upside down at the side of the road?"

"No-one could have predicted that a goat would run into the road and cause me to crash the car."

"Was there no way you could have prevented it?"

"I am not psychic, and accidents do happen."

"But at what cost?!"

"Napoleon! For the love of all that you hold dear, please stop lamenting over the damage to yet another suit."


	89. The Perfect Costume

"So, what are going to go as?"

"I am not telling you," Illya Kuryakin replied, for the hundredth time, to his partner's question. "You will find out tonight."

The two agents had been invited to the birthday party of another Section 2 agent, and it was to be a costume party. Illya had initially balked at the thought, until the perfect costume idea had come to him.

"I've decided on Beau Brummell," Solo told the Russian.

"That seems about right for you," Illya answered, with a wry smile. "A Regency dandy, known for his impeccable dress-sense, and perfect wit. My costume also reflects something of me."

"Don't just give me clues," Napoleon almost whined. "Tell me already."

"I shall see you at Pete's apartment," said Illya.

With that he headed off towards the commissary.

...

Napoleon arrived at the party before Illya and, after only twenty minutes, he was already tired of his costume. The clothing of a dandy had turned out to be terribly constricting but, with a bit of luck, Napoleon would find someone to help him out of it later on. Illya arrived at 8:15 pm, causing all heads to turn in his direction.

He was wearing tight silver trousers with pale blue flecks, silver shoes, a pale blue pirate style shirt, and a silver waistcoat. On his head, perched at a slightly jaunty angle, was a silver and blue velvet coronet. The whole ensemble was finished off with a pale blue sash.

Napoleon watched the women in the room as Illya walked towards him. For a man who didn't like to be noticed, he was doing a very bad job of it. All the so-called modern women, who didn't need a man to define then, were practically swooning in his wake. Napoleon tried not to let his jealousy show. Illya was his closest friend, but it annoyed him slightly how little work the blond had to put in to get women to notice him.

"What are you supposed to be?" he asked, handing Illya a glass of punch.

"Can you not guess?"

"Prince Charming?"

"Almost," Illya replied, with a chuckle. "I am the Ice Prince."


	90. A Quick Rescue

Denis Peeves watched the suffering man, on the other side of the glass, intently. He was believed to be an U.N.C.L.E. agent and, for the last few hours, he had been subjected to many torments designed to make him talk. So far, nothing had been forthcoming. The man was stripped to his underwear, strapped to a metal table, and was experiencing random electric shocks across his body. Peeves planned to wait another twenty minutes before resuming any questioning.

Knowing that the subject could be stubborn, Peeves' superiors had sent for an expert from Central, who was due to arrive at any time.

"Are you getting anywhere?"

Peeves turned and frowned, not recognising the man. He was slightly shorter than average, blond, and had a slight Eastern European accent. The man had a Thrush badge pinned to his lapel, and Peeves remembered that the specialist they were expecting was Polish.

"Are you Dr Lasal, from Central?"

"Indeed," Illya Kuryakin replied, hoping his slight hesitation hadn't been noticed.

It had taken him longer than he'd hoped to break into the Thrush facility and, as was the nature of impromptu rescues, he was having to strategise on the fly. While he was quite capable of such a thing, he wasn't the one who was best at it, and he'd had no real plan for the endgame. Being identified as someone who was expected could just make things much easier.

"You have not answered my question," he continued.

"Erm. . . not yet, doctor," Peeves replied. "We don't even have an identity for him, other than he's probably an U.N.C.L.E. agent. We are hoping you will be able to help."

"Stop what you are currently doing, and take me in to him."

As they entered the interrogation room, Napoleon Solo was beginning to lose consciousness. Through the pink haze of endless hours of torment, he vaguely recognised his partner but, luckily, had just enough awareness not to show it.

"What would you suggest, Dr Lasal?" asked Peeves, who was facing away from Illya.

"Well," said Illya, unholstering his special. "I think you should go to sleep."

He darted Peeves and, after tucking the gun away, he found a storage closet to shove him into. Turning back to Napoleon, Illya realised he was now fully unconscious. There was no way he could carry him out without being caught so, digging around in his jacket pocket, he produced an ammonia capsule and broke it under Solo's nose. While the American gathered his senses, Illya freed him from the table and found his clothes.

"Get dressed as quickly as you can," Illya instructed. "I suspect our escape timeframe is exceptionally narrow."

Napoleon moved frustratingly slowly, with the Russian desperately trying to chivvy him on; finally resorting to dressing his partner as though he were a child.

"We should be able to get out the way I came in," Illya told Napoleon. "I have a vehicle waiting half a mile away. Can you make it?"

"With your help," Solo replied, the first thing he'd said in hours.

The agents got away without any interference, and without any of the facilities personnel ever finding out that they'd had one of U.N.C.L.E.'s top men in their clutches. Denis Peeves, when he was finally discovered, soon came to know the real Dr Lasal exceptionally well.


	91. Brighter Days

Hang on to the world as it spins around  
Just don't let the spin get you down  
Think of moving fast  
Hold on tight and you will last  
Give your self respect, your manly pride  
Get yourself in gear  
Keep your stride  
Never mind your fears  
Brighter days will soon be here  
Take it from me, someday we'll all be free, yeah

 **Someday We'll All Be Free – Don Hathaway**

 ** _..._**

Two boys huddled together in a space which could barely hold one of them. The older one was thirteen years of age. The younger one was nine, though his scrawny frame would fool anyone into thinking he was much younger. They were hiding, with their breaths held, from the soldiers who were hunting for anyone fit enough to serve in the army.

Illya Nickovich Kuryakin and Gleb Ruslanovich Firsov listened in abject terror at the sounds of women screaming, men yelling, and children crying. Boys as young as thirteen, up to men in their sixties, if they were still fit, were being forced from their homes and conscripted. No-one could fight it, as it would have meant instant death. The army needed soldiers, so there was no choice.

Illya and Gleb had only known one another for a few months, but they had come to rely on each other to survive. Whatever food they could get was shared between them, and whenever one was attacked the other would jump in to defend him. Gleb had been horrified when he'd been told what had happened to Illya's mother, grandmother, and sisters, and had taken it upon himself to take care of Illya himself; though having seen him fight, he was in no doubt the kid could take care of himself.

The younger boy often suffered from nightmares, so Gleb would reassure him that things would be different when the war ended. He would declare that brighter days were ahead, and that they would all be free; all they had to do was ignore their fears and hold on.

The pair stiffened in fear as they heard boots coming towards them. It was at this moment that the cold Illya had been coming down with made itself known. He sneezed, and immediately attracted the soldiers towards them.

The boys were dragged from their inadequate hiding place and hauled in front of a very imposing captain. The man appraised them, and after a drawn out period, he declared Gleb to be good enough. Illya, however, was deemed too young, weak, and sickly. The captain suggested it would probably be better to 'let the runt crawl off and die in the street', but was suddenly struck by a glint in the boy's eye. For all his physical shortcomings, there was a definite intelligence lurking inside his head. The captain instructed that Illya should be sent to be tested and, if he passed, he would be educated.

Illya immediately made a break for it but was easily stopped and, as he was led away, he could hear Gleb calling out to him.

"Ya nye zabudu tebya nikogda! ( _I will never forget you!_ )"

...

The pain of losing the only person in his life whom he trusted had stuck with Illya for a long time. It was because of this that he had decided never to let anyone get that close ever again. Aside from the fact it was dangerous to trust anyone, the pain of losing friends was too much to bear. Which was why, as he sat by the bed of his injured partner, Illya's memory of Gleb had come to the surface.

Napoleon was recovering, and would be as good as new in a few weeks, but it had been close. It wasn't the first time Illya had found himself in this position, nor would it be the last, but the thought of almost losing his closest friend was weighing heavily on him. Illya had made a promise to himself that he would never get this close but, as it turned out, it had been a necessity. In their job, you needed someone who could be relied on to always have your back; whatever the situation.

Illya thought about all the things Gleb had said about brighter days coming. Surprisingly, it wasn't the end of the war, or move to U.N.C.L.E., which he considered as being 'brighter days'. It was the friendship he had finally allowed to flourish. Napoleon was a pain in the backside, far too optimistic, and perennially cheerful, but he was also honest, true, and faithful.

One time, Illya had looked into what had happened to Gleb. He'd feared that he would have been taken by the war, but was overjoyed to discover that he had survived. He was now a farmer, with a wife and seven children; the oldest of which was called Illya.


	92. Letting Loose

The nightclub was absolutely packed to the rafters with energetic young people. They were dancing, with hedonistic abandon, to the lively music of the house band. One particular dancer, a blond man with piercing blue eyes, gyrated his way through the mass of bodies and let the rhythm dictate the action of his hips. Although he looked no difference in age to the people around him, he was, at least, ten years older.

Illya Kuryakin spent most of his life having to be anonymous but, the anonymity of the club was different animal. Those with whom he was acquainted knew him to be a somewhat reserved, shy fellow and, generally this was true. However, there were times when Illya need to let loose; be it after a mission, after a spell in medical, or even just after a long period of inactivity.

Usually, Illya would visit a jazz club to either listen, or play, but this time that option wasn't available to him. He and Napoleon had just prevented the end of the world again, but now found themselves in a small town in southern California; one which was not possessed of a jazz club. The American had quickly taken his leave from his partner in order to go in search of female company. As for Illya, he wasn't in the mood to get involved with a woman, but he needed to release the tension he'd built up over the last three days.

It hadn't taken long to find the nightclub and, for nearly five hours, Illya had danced and drank. He attracted the attention of many women, but none of them got any further than a kiss. He laughed to himself as he imagined the faces of his colleagues were they to see him. They would no doubt assume he had been replaced with a Thrush double.

It was 4:30 am when Illya finally returned to the hotel, and the room he was supposedly sharing with his partner. The orange glow of dawn was already showing itself. After the nightclub, he had found a quiet bar, where he spent two hours winding down. When exhaustion began to creep over he knew it was time for bed. Entering the room, he was surprised to find Napoleon there. TheCEA had begun to wake when he heard the sound of Illya trying to get the key in the lock, and was fully woken when the door slammed against the dresser.

"I take it you were unsuccessful in getting laid," Illya slurred, kicking off his shoes and flopping onto the bed. He was asleep before Napoleon could even begin to answer.

Napoleon sighed in acceptance of Illya's state. It was very unusual for him to get this way, but Solo had seen it more than once and fully understood the reason for it. They didn't need to leave until lunch time, which would give Illya time to develop a doozy of a hangover.


	93. Still Got it

As Napoleon helped his partner to the car, after being released from medical, he commented that the Russian had survived once again. Unbidden, Illya's mind flew back twenty-five years, to a day which was etched into his soul.

Hidden in a tree with his friend Kolya, he'd witnessed the brutal murder of his family, and other villagers. In utter shock, Kolya had asked what they should do. Despite his own feelings of fear and despair, Illya had responded with a single word, which belied his tender age.

Survive.

"Of course I did," Illya replied to Napoleon's comment. "I always do."


End file.
